'  III 


Portrait  of  Tolstoy 

Photogravure  from  photograph  taken  in   1895 


ilUtatralPvi    Sjibrani   SiiUton 


HADJI   MURAD 

Translated  by  AYLMER  MAUDE 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  5HINE5  IN 
THE  DARKNESS 

THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL 

By 
LEV   N.  TOLSTOY 

Edited  by  DR.  HAGBERG  WRIGHT 


BOSTON 

COLONIAL  PRESS  COMPANY 

PUBLF5HERS 


Copyright,  igii 
By   DoDD,  Mead  &   Company 

Copyright,    igi2 
By   Dodd,  Mead  &  Company 


HADJI    MURAD 


SRU 


od^hn^^ii 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

Portrait  of  Tolstoy  taken  in  1895        .       .      Frontispiece 

A  Circassian 214 

Tolstoy's  Daughters,  Tatyana,  and  Marya  Luovna      17 


St.  Matthew 146 

In  the  Restaurant 113 


PREFACE 

"1  AM  writing  to  you  specially  to  say  how  glad 
I  have  been  to  be  your  contemporary,  and  to  ex- 
press my  last  and  sincere  request.  My  friend, 
return  to  literary  activity!  That  gift  came  to 
you  from  whence  comes  all  the  rest.  .  .  . 
Great  writer  of  our  Russian  land,  listen  to  my 
wish!" 

So  wrote  Turgenev  on  his  deathbed  to  Tol- 
stoy, when  the  latter,  absorbed  in  religious 
struggles  and  studies,  had  for  five  years  pro- 
duced no  work  of  art  save  one  short  story. 

Nor  was  it  long  before  the  wish  was  realised, 
for  three  years  later  Tolstoy  was  writing  "The 
Death  of  Ivan  Ilyitch,"  and  that  tremendous 
drama,  "The  Power  of  Darkness";  and  these 
were  followed  by  a  number  of  short  stories, 
some  plays,  a  long  novel  ("Resurrection")  and 
the  works  now  posthumously  published. 
Among  these  latter  a  foremost  place  belongs  to 
"Hadji  Murad,"  in  which  Tolstoy  again  tells 
of  that  Caucasian  life  which  supplied  him  with 


6  PREFACE 

the  matter  for  some  of  his  earliest  tales  as  well 
as  for  his  great  story  "The  Cossacks,"  which 
Turgenev  declared  to  be  "the  best  story  that 
has  been  written  in  our  (Russian)  language." 

The  Caucasus  indeed  offered  a  rich  variety  of 
material  on  which  Tolstoy  drew  at  every  stage 
of  his  literary  career.  It  was  there  that,  at 
the  age  of  twenty-three,  he  first  saw  war  as  a 
volunteer;  there  he  served  for  two  years  as  a 
cadet ;  and  there  finally  he  became  an  officer,  be- 
fore leaving  to  serve  in  the  Crimean  war — 
which  in  its  turn  gave  him  material  for  his 
sketches  of  "Sevastopol." 

In  his  letters  from,  the  Caucasus  he  often 
complained  of  the  dulness  and  emptiness  of  his 
life  there;  yet  it  certainly  attracted  him  for  a 
while,  and  was  not  devoid  of  stirring  and  curi- 
ous incidents. 

The  most  extraordinary  of  these  relates  to  a 
gambling  debt  he  incurred  and  was  unable  to 
pay.  Having  given  notes-of-hand,  he  was  in 
despair  when  the  date  of  pajTiient  approached 
without  his  having  been  able  to  procure  the 
money  needed,  and  he  prayed  earnestly  to  God 
"to  get  me  out  of  this  disagreeable  scrape." 


PREFACE  7 

The  very  next  morning  he  received  a  letter  en- 
closing his  notes-of-hand,  which  were  returned 
to  him  as  a  free  gift  by  a  young  Chechen  named 
Sado,  who  had  become  his  kundk  (devoted 
friend)  and  had  won  them  back  at  cards  from 
the  officer  who  won  them  from  Tolstoy. 

It  was  in  company  with  that  same  Sado  that 
Tolstoy,  when  passing  from  one  fort  to  another, 
was  chased  by  the  enemy  and  nearly  captured. 

His  life  was  in  imminent  danger  on  another 
occasion,  when  a  shell,  fired  by  the  enemy, 
smashed  the  carriage  of  a  cannon  he  was  point- 
ing; but  once  again  he  escaped  unhurt. 

It  was  during  his  first  year  in  the  Caucasus 
that  Tolstoy  began  writing  for  publication. 
''The  Raid,"  describing  the  kind  of  warfare  he 
was  witnessing  there,  was  the  second  of  his 
stories  to  appear  in  print.  A  little  later  he 
wrote  two  other  tales  dealing  with  the  same 
subject:  ''The  Wood-Felling,"  and  "Meeting  a 
Moscow  Acquaintance  in  the  Detachment." 

Feeling  that  he  had  not  exhausted  the  ma- 
terial at  his  disposal,  he  then  planned  "The 
Cossacks:  a  Caucasian  Story  of  1852,"  which 
he  kept  on  hand  unfinished  for  nearly  ten  years. 


8  PREFACE 

and  might  not  have  published  even  then  had  he 
not  happened  to  lose  some  money  at  Chinese 
billiards  to  a  stranger  he  met  at  the  club  in 
Moscow.  To  pay  this  debt,  he  sold  ''The  Cos- 
sacks" for  Rs.  1,000  (about  £150  in  those  days) 
to  Katkov,  the  well-known  publicist  and  pub- 
lisher, with  whom  he  subsequently  quarrelled. 
The  circumstances  under  which  he  had  parted 
with  "The  Cossacks"  were  so  unpleasant  to 
Tolstoy  that  he  never  completed  the  story. 

Ten  years  later,  when  he  had  set  his  heart  on 
producing  an  attractive  reading-book  for  chil- 
dren, he  wrote  the  charming  little  story  "iV 
Prisoner  in  the  Caucasus"  (one  of  the  gems  in 
"Twenty-three  Tales"),  founded  on  the  above- 
mentioned  incident  of  his  own  narrow  escape 
from  capture;  and  finally,  after  another  thirty 
years  had  passed,  he  drew  upon  his  Caucasian 
recollections  for  the  last  time  when  he  com- 
posed "Hadji  Murad." 

Tolstoy  had  met  Hadji  Murad  in  Tiflis  in 
December  1851,^  and  in  a  letter  addressed  to 

1  Writing  my  "Life  of  Tolstoy"  before  I  knew  the  full 
story  of  Hadji  INIurad,  I  confused  liiiu,  in  the  first  edition, 
with  some  one  else,  and  stated  that  Tolstoy  met  bini  at 
Karalyk  in  1871.     On  reading  my  book  the  Countess  Tolstoy 


PREFACE  9 

his  brother  Sergius  on  the  23rd  of  that  month 
he  wrote, — 

*'If  you  wish  to  show  off  with  news  from  the 
Caucasus,  you  may  recount  that  a  certain  Hadji 
Munid  (second  in  importance  to  Shamil  him- 
self) surrendered  a  few  days  ago  to  the  Rus- 
sian Government.  He  was  the  leading  dare- 
devil and  'brave'  of  all  Chechnya,  but  has  been 
led  into  committing  a  mean  action." 

The  details  of  Hadji  Murad's  life  as  given  by 
Tolstoy  in  his  story  are  not  always  historically 
exact ;  but  the  main  events  are  true,  and  the  tale 
is  told  in  a  way  that  gives  a  vivid  and  faithful 
picture  of  those  stirring  times. 

Of  the  struggle  for  independence  carried  on 
in  the  Caucasus  with  such  desperate  bravery 
for  so  many  years,  very  little  was  known  to 
English  readers  until  the  publication  of  ]\lr. 
Baddeley's  "The  Russian  Conquest  of  the  Cau- 
casus," which  gives  an  excellent  account  of  that 
involved,  confusing  and  long  drawn-out,  but  im- 
portant, contest. 

The  Caucasus  is  peopled  by  so  many  tribes, 

warned  rue  of  this  mistake,  but  lier  wariiini^  did  not  reacli 
me  soon  enougli,  and  I  was  only  able  to  put  the  matter  ri,::^iit 
in  a  later  edition. 


10  PREFACE 

differing  so  much  among  themselves,  and  all  so 
strange  to  Western  Europeans,  that  it  is  not 
easy  to  summarise  the  history  of  the  conflict 
in  a  way  at  once  correct  and  clear.  There  are, 
however,  certain  main  facts  which  should  be 
borne  in  mind  when  reading  "Hadji  Murad." 

As  her  only  possible  way  of  escape  from  the 
oppression  of  Persia  on  one  side  and  of  Turkey 
on  another,  Christian  Georgia — lying  to  the 
south  of  the  Caucasian  Mountains — submitted 
to  Russia  as  long  ago  as  the  commencement  of 
the  nineteenth  century. 

Even  before  that  Russia  had  spasmodically 
attempted  to  conquer  the  northern  part  of  the 
Caucasus ;  but  from  then  onwards  she  had  a 
special  incentive  to  press  forward  and  annex 
the  territories  dividing  her  from  Georgia  which 
was  already  hers. 

The  internecine  feuds  of  the  native  tribes 
generally  prevented  them  from  offering  a 
united  resistance  to  Russian  aggression;  but 
the  dense  forests  of  Chechnya,  and  the  exceed- 
ingly mountainous  character  of  Daghestan,  ren- 
dered the  subjugation  of  those  regions  a  matter 
of  great  difficulty. 


PREFACE  11 

In  addition  to  the  geographical  obstacles 
there  was  another,  due  to  a  strong  religious  re- 
vival which  sprang  up  among  the  Mohammedan 
population  and,  despite  the  feuds  among  the 
tribes,  to  a  considerable  extent  and  for  a  con- 
siderable time  united  them  in  a  holy  war  against 
the  infidel  Russians. 

Like  all  great  religious  movements  this  re- 
vival had  roots  in  a  distant  past.  It  also  had 
currents,  religious  and  political,  which  swept 
now  in  one  direction  and  now  in  another. 

To  begin  with,  there  was  a  Murid  movement 
which  appears  to  have  been  almost  identical 
with  Sufi 'ism,  and  to  have  existed  from  the 
third  century  of  the  Mohammedan  era.  That 
movement,  going  beyond  the  Shariat  (the  writ- 
ten law),  inculcated  the  Tarikat  (the  Path) 
leading  to  the  higher  life.  It  also  proclaimed 
the  equality  of  all  Mussulmans,  rich  and  poor 
alike,  and  enjoined  temperance,  abstinence, 
self-denial,  and  the  renunciation  of  the  good 
things  of  both  worlds,  that  man  may  make  him- 
self "free  to  receive  worthily  the  love  towards 
God."  In  Muridism  a  teacher  was  called  a 
Murshid  ("one  who  shows"  the  way),  while  a 


12  PREFACE 

Murid  was  a  disciple  or  follower   ("one  who 
desires"  to  find  the  way). 

Such  was  Muridism  for  several  centuries:  a 
peaceful,  religious  movement  of  a  highly 
spiritual  character;  but  within  the  last  few  gen- 
erations the  struggle  against  Russia  had  given 
a  new  quality  to  the  movement,  and  from  being 
spiritual  it  had  become  strongly  political. 

As  early  as  1785  Mansur,  a  leader  of  un- 
known origin,  appeared  in  the  Caucasus  preach- 
ing the  Ghazavat,  or  Holy  War,  against  the  in- 
fidels; and  from  1830  onwards,  when  Kazi- 
Mulhi,  the  first  Imam  (uniting  in  himself  su- 
preme spiritual  and  temporal  power)  took  the 
field,  Muridism  became  identified  with  the  fierce 
struggle  for  independence  carried  on  by  the 
native  tribes  against  the  Russian  invaders. 

Mansur  and  Kazi-Mulla  are  both  mentioned 
in  Tolstoy's  story,  in  which  also  Hadji  Murad 
tells  of  the  part  he  took  in  the  execution  or 
assassination  of  Kazi-Mulla 's  successor,  Ham- 
zdd.  Shamil,  too,  who  succeeded  Hamzad  and 
was  the  greatest  of  the  Imams,  figures  as  one  of 
the  principal  characters  in  the  story. 

How  little  the  nature  and  importance  of  that 


PREFACE  13 

war  in  the  Caucasus  was  understood  by 
Western  Europe  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  when 
tlie  Crimean  War  broke  out — the  year  after 
Hadji  Murad's  death — no  serious  attempt  was 
made  to  support  or  encourage  Shamil  in  the 
struggle  whicli,  even  after  the  conchision  of  the 
Crimean  War,  he  desperately  maintained 
against  Russia  till  his  last  fortress  fell  in  1859, 
and  he  himself  was  sent  prisoner  to  Kaluga. 

We  may  be  said  to  owe  the  existence  of  this 
story  to  the  severe  illnesses  from  which  Tolstoy 
sutYered  in  1901  and  1902,  for  his  sickness  kept 
him  in  a  state  in  which  he  found  it  difficult  to 
work  at  ''What  is  Religion?"  or  the  other 
didactic  essays  he  was  engaged  upon,  and  by 
way  of  relaxation  he  turned  to  fiction  and 
produced  "Hadji  Murad."  It  is  worth  no- 
ticing that  in  the  fifth  chapter  of  this — 
one  of  the  last  stories  he  ever  wrote — 
Tolstoy  describes  a  skirmish  and  a  soldier's 
death  in  a  way  that  closely  reminds  one  of  an 
incident  he  had  handled  in  "The  Wood  Fell- 
ing," nearly  half  a  century  before.  He  thus, 
at  the  outset  and  at  the  close  of  his  literary 
career,  told  almost  the  same  tale  in  almost  the 


14  PREFACE 

same  way  and  with  almost  the  same  feeling. 

On  comparing  the  Caucasian  stories  he  wrote 
between  the  ages  of  twenty-three  and  thirty- 
four  with  the  one  he  wrote  when  he  was 
seventy-four,  one  finds  in  them  all  the  same 
wonderfully  acute  power  of  observation  which 
seized  the  characteristic  indications  both  of  the 
inner  and  the  outer  life  of  man ;  the  same  reten- 
tive memory;  the  same  keen  interest  in  life, 
and  the  same  discrimination  between  things 
sympathised  with  and  things  disapproved  of, 
but  there  is  this  very  noticeable  difference :  each 
of  the  earlier  stories  contains  a  character  who 
more  or  less  closely  represents  Tolstoy  himself, 
through  whose  eyes  everything  is  seen. 
"Hadji  Murad,"  on  the  contrary,  is  written 
quite  objectively.  Before  he  wrote  it  Tolstoy 
had  become  sure  of  himself,  and  felt  that  he 
had  only  to  tell  the  story,  and  that  his  judg- 
ment of  men  and  of  actions  would  justify  itself 
without  his  own  point  of  view  even  needing  to  be 
explicitly  stated. 

In  ''Hadji  Murad,"  as  in  all  his  later  writ- 
ings, Tolstoy  makes  us  feel  how  repugnant  to 
him  were  the  customary  ways  of  the  life  we  call 


PREFACE  15 

''civilised,"  with  its  selfishness  and  self-indul- 
gence, its  officialism,  banquets,  balls,  and  mas- 
querades, and  above  all,  with  its  complete  lack 
of  spiritual  fervour.  The  manners  and  customs 
of  the  semi-savage  tribesmen  arouse  no  such 
abhorrence  in  him.  The  natural  instinctive 
spontaneity  of  their  conduct  appeals  to  him; 
and  throughout  the  tale  he  makes  us  feel  that 
Hadji  Murad  could  not  possibly  have  acted 
otherwise  than  as  he  did,  either  when  he  de- 
serted the  Russians  or  when  he  returned  to 
them,  or  when  he  slew  his  guards  and  tried  once 
more  to  escape  to  the  mountains.  Hadji  Murad 
held  life  cheap — his  own  as  well  as  that  of  other 
people;  but  though  he  spilt  much  blood,  he 
never  arouses  the  antipathy  we  are  made  to 
feel  for  the  pedantic,  stupid  cruelty  of  Nicho- 
las I. 

Especially  attractive  to  Tolstoy  is  the  re- 
ligious fervour  of  self-abnegation,  and  the 
readiness  for  self-sacrifice  in  a  great  cause, 
which  were  so  frequently  shown  by  the  moun- 
taineers. 

"We  are  more  closely  akin  to  the  men  of  other 
lands  than  we  often  realise;  and  lest  some  one 


16  PREFACE 

reading  this  book  should  say  to  himself,  ''Yes, 
the  Eussians  are  so-and-so,  but  we  are  not  as 
they  .  .  ."it  may  be  well  to  mention  that 
the  elder  Vorontsov's  mother  was  an  English- 
woman, a  Herbert  of  the  Pembroke  family. 
For  that  fact,  and  for  much  else,  I  am  indebted 
to  Mr.  J.  F.  Baddeley,  and  especially  for  his 
version  of  the  song  of  the  blood-feud  sung  by 
Khanefii,  which  I  have  borrowed. 

The  footnotes  are  not  part  of  the  original 
work,  but  belong  to  the  translation. 

AYLMER  MAUDE. 


HADJI   MURAD 


HADJI   MURAD' 


I  WAS  returning  home  by  the  fields.  It  was 
midsummer;  the  hay  harvest  was  over,  and  they 
were  just  beginning  to  reap  the  rye.  At  that 
season  of  the  year  there  is  a  delightful  variety 
of  flowers — red  white  and  pink  scented  tufty 
clover;  milk-white  ox-eye  daisies  with  their 
bright  yellow  centres  and  pleasant  spicy  smell ; 
yellow  honey-scented  rape  blossoms;  tall  cam- 
panulas with  white  and  lilac  bells,  tulip-shaped; 
creeping  vetch;  yellow  red  and  pink  scabious; 
plantains  with  faintly-scented  neatly-arranged 
purple,  slightly  pink-tinged  blossoms;  corn- 
flowers, bright  blue  in  the  sunshine  and  while 
still  young,  but  growing  paler  and  redder 
towards  evening  or  when  growing  old;  and 
delicate  quickly-withering  almond-scented  dod- 
der flowers.  I  gathered  a  large  nosegay  of 
these  different  flowers,  and  was  going  home, 

1  Spelt  by  the  Russians  Miirat.     Murad  seems  the  more 
correct. — Ed. 

19 


20  HADJI   MURAD 

when  I  noticed  in  a  ditch,  in  full  bloom,  a  beau- 
tiful thistle  plant  of  the  crimson  kind,  which  in 
our  neighbourhood  they  call  "Tartar,"  and 
carefully  avoid  when  mowing — or,  if  they  do 
happen  to  cut  it  down,  throw  out  from  among 
the  grass  for  fear  of  pricking  their  hands. 
Thinking  to  pick  this  thistle  and  put  it  in  the 
centre  of  my  nosegay,  I  climbed  down  into  the 
ditch,  and,  after  driving  away  a  velvety  humble- 
bee  that  had  penetrated  deep  into  one  of  the 
flowers  and  had  there  fallen  sweetly  asleep,  I 
set  to  work  to  pluck  the  flower.  But  this 
proved  a  very  difficult  task.  Not  only  did  the 
stalk  prick  on  every  side — even  through  the 
handkerchief  I  wrapped  round  my  hand — but  it 
was  so  tough  that  I  had  to  struggle  with  it  for 
nearly  five  minutes,  breaking  the  fibres  one  by 
one ;  and  when  I  had  at  last  plucked  it,  the  stalk 
was  all  frayed,  and  the  flower  itself  no  longer 
seemed  so  fresh  and  beautiful.  Moreover, 
owing  to  its  coarseness  and  stiffness,  it  did  not 
seem  in  place  among  the  delicate  blossoms  of 
my  nosegay.  I  felt  sorry  to  have  vainly 
destroyed  a  flower  that  looked  beautiful  in  its 
proper  place,  and  I  threw  it  away. 


HADJI   MURAD  21 

''But  wliat  energy  and  tenacity!  With  what 
determination  it  defended  itself,  and  how 
dearly  it  sold  its  life!"  thought  I  to  myself, 
recollecting  the  effort  it  had  cost  me  to  pluck 
the  flower.  The  way  home  led  across  black- 
earth  fields  that  had  just  been  ploughed  up.  I 
ascended  the  dusty  path.  The  ploughed  field 
belonged  to  a  landed  proprietor,  and  was  so 
large  that  on  both  sides  and  before  me  to  the 
top  of  the  hill  nothing  was  visible  but  evenly 
furrowed  and  moist  earth.  The  land  was  well 
tilled,  and  nowhere  was  there  a  blade  of  grass 
or  any  kind  of  plant  to  be  seen ;  it  was  all  black. 
"Ah,  what  a  destructive  creature  is  man. 
.  .  .  How  many  different  plant-lives  he 
destroys  to  support  his  own  existence!'* 
thought  I,  involuntarily  looking  round  for  some 
living  thing  in  this  lifeless  black  field.  In  front 
of  me,  to  the  right  of  the  road,  I  saw  some  kind 
of  little  clump,  and  drawing  nearer  I  found  it 
was  the  same  kind  of  thistle  as  that  which  I  had 
vainly  plucked  and  thrown  away.  This  "Tar- 
tar" plant  had  three  branches.  One  was 
broken,  and  stuck  out  like  the  stump  of  a  muti- 
lated   arm.     Each    of   the    other    two    bore    a 


22  HADJI    MU  RAD 

flower,  once  red  but  now  blackened.  One  stalk 
was  broken  and  half  of  it  hung  down  with  a 
soiled  flower  at  its  tip.  The  other,  though  also 
soiled  with  black  mud,  still  stood  erect.  Evi- 
dently a  cartwheel  had  passed  over  the  plant, 
but  it  had  risen  again  and  that  was  whj^  though 
erect,  it  stood  twisted  to  one  side,  as  if  a  piece 
of  its  body  had  been  torn  from  it,  its  bowels  had 
been  drawn  out,  an  arm  torn  off,  and  one  of  its 
eyes  plucked  out;  and  yet  it  stood  firm  and  did 
not  surrender  to  man,  who  had  destroyed  all 
its  brothers  around  it.     .     .     . 

''What  energy!"  I  thought.  ''Man  has  con- 
quered everything,  and  destroyed  millions  of 
plants,  yet  this  one  won't  submit."  And  I  re- 
membered a  Caucasian  episode  of  years  ago, 
which  I  had  partly  seen  myself,  partly  heard 
of  from  eye-witnesses,  and  in  part  imagined. 

The  episode,  as  it  has  taken  shape  in  my 
memory  and  imagination,  was  as  follows. 

•  •  •  •  • 

This  happened  towards  the  end  of  1851. 
On  a  cold  November  evening  Hadji  Murad 
rode  into  Makhmet,  a  hostile  Chechen  aoulj^ 

2  Aoul,  Tartar  village. 


HADJI   MURAD  23 

that  was  filled  with  the  scented  smoke  of  burn- 
ing kizyak,^  and  that  lay  some  fifteen  miles 
from  Russian  territory.  The  strained  chant  of 
the  muezzin  had  just  ceased,  and  through  the 
clear  mountain  air,  impregnated  with  kizydk 
smoke,  above  the  lowing  of  the  cattle  and  the 
bleating  of  the  sheep  that  were  dispersing 
among  the  saklyas  ^  (which  were  crowded  to- 
gether like  the  cells  of  a  honeycomb),  could  be 
clearly  heard  the  guttural  voices  of  disputing 
men,  and  sounds  of  women's  and  children's 
voices  rising  from  near  the  fountain  below. 

This  was  Hadji  Murad,  Shamil's  ndih,^ 
famous  for  his  exploits,  who  used  never  to  ride 
out  without  his  banner,  and  was  always  accom- 
panied by  some  dozens  of  murids,  who  cara- 
coled and  showed  off  before  him.  Now,  with 
one  murid  only,  wrapped  in  hood  and  hurka^ 
from  under  which  protruded  a  rifle,  he  rode,  a 
fugitive,  trying  to  attract  as  little  attention  as 
possible,  and  peering  with  his  quick  black  eyes 
into  the  faces  of  those  he  met  on  his  way. 

3  Kizydk,   fuel   made  of  straw  and  manure. 

4  Siiklyo,    a    Caucasian    bouse,    clay   plastered   and   often 
built  of  earth, 

0  Xa'ib,  lieutenant  or  governor, 
c  Burka,  a  long,   round   felt  cape. 


24  HADJI   MURAD 

When  he  entered  the  aoul,  Hadji  Murad  did 
not  ride  up  the  road  leading  to  the  open  square, 
but  turned  to  the  left  into  a  narrow  side  street ; 
and  on  reaching  the  second  sdklya,  which  was 
cut  into  the  hillside,  he  stopped  and  looked 
round.  There  was  no  one  under  the  penthouse 
in  front;  but  on  the  roof  of  the  sdklya  itself, 
behind  the  freshly-plastered  clay  chimney,  lay  a 
man  covered  with  a  sheepskin.  Hadji  Murad 
touched  him  with  the  handle  of  his  leather- 
plaited  whip,  and  clicked  his  tongue.  An  old 
man  rose  from  under  the  sheepskin.  He  had 
on  a  greasy  old  heshmet  '^  and  a  nightcap.  His 
moist  red  eyelids  had  no  lashes,  and  he  blinked 
to  get  them  unstuck.  Hadji  Murad,  repeating 
the  customary  " Selaam  aleikum!"  uncovered 
his  face.  "Aleikum,  selaam!"  said  the  old 
man,  recognising  Hadji  Murad  and  smiling 
with  his  toothless  mouth ;  and  rising  up  on  his 
thin  legs,  he  began  thrusting  his  feet  into  the 
wooden-heeled  slippers  that  stood  by  the  chim- 
ney. Then  he  leisurely  slipped  his  arms  into 
the  sleeves  of  his  crumpled  sheepskin,  and  go- 
ing to  the  ladder  that  leant  against  the  roof,  he 

7  Bcshnict,  a  Tartar  uiKlorgarnient  with  sleeves. 


HADJI   MURAD  25 

descended  backwards.  "While  he  dressed,  and 
as  he  climbed  down,  he  kept  shaking  his  head 
on  its  thin,  shrivelled  sunburnt  neck,  and 
mumbling  something  with  his  toothless  mouth. 
As  soon  as  he  reached  the  ground  he  hospitably- 
seized  Hadji  Munid's  bridle  and  right  stirrup; 
but  the  strong,  active  murid  who  accompanied 
Hadji  Murad  had  quickly  dismounted  and, 
motioning  the  old  man  aside,  took  his  place. 
Hadji  Murad  also  dismounted  and,  walking 
with  a  slight  limp,  entered  under  the  penthouse. 
A  boy  of  fifteen,  coming  quickly  out  of  the 
door,  met  him  and  wonderingly  fixed  his 
sparkling  eyes,  black  as  ripe  sloes,  on  the  new 
arrivals. 

''Run  to  the  mosque  and  call  your  father," 
ordered  the  old  man,  as  he  hurried  forward  to 
open  the  thin,  creaking  door  into  the  sdklya  for 
Hadji  Murad. 

As  Hadji  Murad  entered  the  outer  door,  a 
slight  spare  middle-aged  woman  in  a  yellow 
smock,  red  heshmet,  and  wide  blue  trousers 
came  through  an  inner  door  carrying  cushions. 

''May  thy  coming  bring  happiness!"  said 
she,  and,  bending  nearly  double,  began  arrang- 


26  HADJI   MURAD 

ing  the  cushions  along  the  front  wall  for  the 
guest  to  sit  on. 

''May  thy  sons  live!"  answered  Hadji 
Murad,  taking  off  his  hurka,  his  rifle  and  his 
sword  and  handing  them  to  the  old  man,  who 
carefully  hung  the  rifle  and  sword  on  a  nail 
beside  the  weapons  of  the  master  of  the  house, 
which  were  suspended  between  two  large  basins 
that  glittered  against  the  clean  clay-plastered 
and  carefully  whitewashed  wall. 

Hadji  Murad  adjusted  the  pistol  at  his  back, 
came  up  to  the  cushions  and,  wrapping  his 
Circassian  coat  closer  round  him,  sat  down. 
The  old  man  squatted  on  his  bare  heels  beside 
him,  closed  his  eyes,  and  lifted  his  hands,  palms 
upwards.  Hadji  Murad  did  the  same;  then, 
after  repeating  a  prayer,  they  both  stroked 
their  faces,  passing  their  hands  downwards  till 
the  palms  joined  at  the  end  of  their  beards. 

"Ne  habar?"  asked  Hadji  Murad,  addressing 
the  old  man.  (That  is,  "Is  there  anything 
new!") 

''Habar  yok"  ("nothing  new"),  replied  the 
old  man,  looking  with  his  lifeless  red  eyes  not 
at  Hadji  Murad 's  face  but  at  his  breast.     "I 


HADJI   MUR  AD  27 

live  at  the  apiary,  and  have  only  to-day  come  to 
see  my  son.     .     .     .     He  knows." 

Hadji  ]\riirad,  understanding  that  the  old  man 
did  not  wisli  to  say  what  he  knew  and  what 
Hadji  Murad  wanted  to  know,  slightly  nodded 
his  head  and  asked  no  more  questions. 

''There  is  no  good  news,"  said  the  old  man. 
''The  only  news  is  that  the  hares  keep- discuss- 
ing how  to  drive  away  the  eagles;  and  the 
eagles  tear  first  one  and  then  another  of  them. 
The  other  day  the  Russian  dogs  burnt  the  hay 
in  the  Mitchit  aoid.  .  .  .  May  their  faces  be 
torn!"  added  he,  hoarsely  and  angrily. 

Hadji  Murad 's  murid  entered  the  room,  his 
strong  legs  striding  softly  over  the  earthen 
floor.  Retaining  -only  his  dagger  and  pistol,  he 
shook  off  his  burJia,  rifle  and  sword  as  Hadji 
Muriid  had  done,  and  hung  them  up  on  the  same 
nails  with  his  leader's  weapons. 

"Who  is  he!"  asked  the  old  man,  pointing  to 
the  newcomer. 

"My  murid.  Eldar  is  his  name,"  said  Hadji 
Murad. 

"That  is  well,"  said  the  old  man,  and  mo- 
tioned Eldar  to  a  place  on  a  piece  of  felt  beside 


28  HADJI   MURAD 

Hadji  Murad.  Eldar  sat  down,  crossing  his 
legs,  and  fixing  his  fine  ram-like  eyes  on  the 
old  man,  who,  having  now  started  talking,  was 
telling  how  their  brave  fellows  had  caught  two 
Russian  soldiers  the  week  before,  and  had  killed 
one  and  sent  the  other  to  Shamil  in  Veden. 

Hadji  Murad  heard  him  absently,  looking  at 
the  door  and  listening  to  the  sounds  outside. 
Under  the  penthouse  steps  were  heard,  the 
door  creaked,  and  Sado,  the  master  of  the 
house,  came  in.  He  was  a  man  of  about  forty, 
with  a  small  beard,  long  nose,  and  eyes  as 
black,  though  not  as  glittering,  as  those  of  his 
fifteen-year-old  son  who  had  run  to  call  him 
home,  and  who  now  entered  with  his  father 
and  sat  down  by  the  door.  The  master  of  the 
house  took  off  his  wooden  slippers  at  the  door, 
and  pushing  his  old  and  much-worn  cap  on 
to  the  back  of  his  head  (which  had  remained 
unshaved  so  long  that  it  was  beginning  to  be 
overgrown  with  black  hair),  at  once  squatted 
down  in  front  of  Hadji  Murad. 

He  too  lifted  his  hands,  palms  upwards,  as 
the  old  man  had  done,  repeated  a  prayer,  and 
then  stroked  his  face  downwards.     Only  after 


HADJI   MURAD  29 

that  did  he  begin  to  speak.  He  told  how  an 
order  had  come  from  Shamil  to  seize  Hadji 
Murad,  alive  or  dead;  that  Shamil 's  envoys  had 
left  only  the  day  before;  that  the  people  were 
afraid  to  disobey  Shamil 's  orders;  and  that 
therefore  it  was  necessary  to  be  careful. 

''In  my  house,"  said  Sado,  "no  one  shall  in- 
jure my  kundk  ^  while  I  live ;  but  how  will  it  be 
in  the  open  fields?  ...  We  must  think  it 
over," 

Hadji  Murad  listened  with  attention  and 
nodded  approvingly.  When  Sado  had  finished 
he  said, — 

"Very  well.  Now  we  must  send  a  man  with 
a  letter  to  the  Russians.  My  murid  will  go,  but 
he  will  need  a  guide." 

"I  will  send  brother  Bata,"  said  Sado.  *'Go 
and  call  Bata,"  he  added,  turning  to  his  son. 

The  boy  instantly  bounded  to  his  nimble  feet 
as  if  he  were  on  springs,  and  swinging  his 
arms,  rapidly  left  the  sdklya.  Some  ten 
minutes  later  he  returned  with  a  sinewv,  short- 
legged  Chechen,  burnt  almost  black  b}^  the  sun, 
wearing  a  worn  and  tattered  yellow  Circassian 

^  Kunulc,  sworn  friend,  guest. 


30  HADJI   MURAD 

coat  with  frayed  sleeves,  and  crumpled  black 
leggings. 

Hadji  Murad  greeted  the  newcomer,  and  at 
once,  and  again  without  wasting  a  single  word, 
asked, — 

"Canst  thou  conduct  my  murid  to  the  Rus- 
sians?" 

"I  can,"  gaily  replied  Bata.  ''I  can  cer- 
tainly do  it.  There  is  not  another  Chechen  who 
would  pass  as  I  can.  Another  might  agree  to 
go,  and  might  promise  anything,  but  would  do 
nothing ;  but  I  can  do  it ! " 

"All  right,"  said  Hadji  Murad.  "Thou  wilt 
receive  three  for  thy  trouble,"  and  he  held  up 
three  fingers. 

Bata  nodded  to  show  that  he  understood,  and 
added  that  it  was  not  money  he  prized,  but  that 
he  was  ready  to  serve  Hadji  Murad  for  the 
honour  alone.  Every  one  in  the  mountains 
knew  Hadji  Murad,  and  how  he  slew  the  Rus- 
sian swine. 

"Very  well.  ...  a  rope  should  be  long, 
but  a  speech  short,"  said  Hadji  Murad. 

"Well,  then,  I'll  hold  my  tongue,"  said  Bata. 

"Where  the  river  Argun  bends  by  the  cliff," 


HADJI    MUR  AD  31 

said  Hadji  Murad,  "there  are  two  stacks  in  a 
glade  in  the  forest — thou  knowestf" 

''I  know." 

''There  my  four  horsemen  are  waiting  for 
me,"  said  Hadji  Murad. 

"Aye,"  answered  Bata,  nodding. 

"Ask  for  Khan  Mahoma.  He  knows  what  to 
do  and  wliat  to  say.  Canst  thou  lead  him  to 
the  Russian  commander,  Prince  Vorontsov?" 

"I'll  take  him  there." 

' '  Take  him,  and  bring  him  back  again.  Canst 
thou?" 

"I  can." 

"Take  him  there,  and  return  to  the  wood.  I 
shall  be  there  too." 

"I  will  do  it  all,"  said  Bata,  rising,  and  put- 
ting  his  hands  on  his  heart  he  went  out. 

Hadji  Murdd  turned  to  his  host  when  Bata 
had  gone. 

"A  man  must  also  be  sent  to  Chekhi,"  he  be- 
gan, and  took  hold  of  one  of  the  cartridge 
pouches  of  his  Circassian  coat,  but  immediately 
let  his  hand  drop  and  became  silent  on  seeing 
tw.o  women  enter  the  sdklya. 

One  was  Sado's  wife — the  thin  middle-aged 


32  HADJI   MURAD 

woman  who  had  arranged  the  cushions  for 
Hadji  Murad.  The  other  was  quite  a  young 
girl,  wearing  red  trousers  and  a  green  heshmet; 
a  necklace  of  silver  coins  covered  the  whole 
front  of  her  dress,  and  at  the  end  of  the  not 
long  but  thick  plait  of  hard  black  hair  that  hung 
between  her  thin  shoulder-blades  a  silver  rouble 
was  suspended.  Her  eyes,  as  sloe  black  as 
those  of  her  father  and  brother,  sparkled 
brightly  in  her  young  face,  which  tried  to  be 
stern.  She  did  not  look  at  the  visitors,  but 
evidently  felt  their  presence. 

Sado's  wife  brought  in  a  low  round  table,  on 
which  stood  tea,  pancakes  in  butter,  cheese, 
chiirek  (that  is,  thinly  rolled  out  bread),  and 
honey.  The  girl  carried  a  basin,  a  ewer,  and  a 
towel. 

Sado  and  Hadji  Murad  kept  silent  as  long  as 
the  women,  with  their  coin  ornaments  tinkling, 
moved  softly  about  in  their  red  soft-soled  slip- 
pers, setting  out  before  the  visitors  the  things 
they  had  brought.  Eldar  sat  motionless  as  a 
statue,  his  ram-like  eyes  fixed  on  his  crossed 
legs,  all  the  time  the  women  were  in  the  sdMya. 
Only  after  they  had  gone,  and  their  soft  foot- 


HADJI    MURAD  33 

steps  could  no  longer  be  heard  behind  the  door, 
did  he  give  a  sigh  of  relief. 

Hadji  Muriid  having  pulled  out  a  bullet  that 
plugged  one  of  the  bullet-pouches  of  his  Circas- 
sian coat,   and  having  taken   out   a   rolled-up 
note  that  lay  beneath  it,  held  it  out,  saying, — 
^*To  be  handed  to  my  son." 
"Where  must  the  answer  be  sent?" 
''To  thee,  and  thou  must  forward  it  to  me." 
"It  shall  be  done,"  said  Sado,  and  placed  the 
note   in   a   cartridge-pocket   of   his   own   coat. 
Then  he  took  up  the  metal  ewer  and  moved  the 
basin  towards  Hadji  Munld. 

Hadji  Murad  turned  up  the  sleeves  of  his 
heshmet  on  his  white  muscular  arms,  and  held 
out  his  hands  under  the  clear  cold  water  which 
Sado  poured  from  the  ewer.  Having  wiped 
them  on  a  clean  unbleached  towel,  Hadji  Murad 
turned  to  the  table.  Ekhir  did  the  same. 
While  the  visitors  ate,  Sado  sat  opposite,  and 
thanked  them  several  times  for  their  visit.  The 
boy  sat  by  the  door,  never  taking  his  sparkling 
eyes  off  Hadji  Murad 's  face,  and  smiled  as  if 
in  confirmation  of  his  father's  words. 

Though  Hadji  Murad  had  eaten  nothing  for 


34  HADJI   MUEAD 

more  than  twenty-four  hours,  tie  ate  only  a  little 
bread  and  cheese;  then,  drawing  out  a  small 
knife  from  under  his  dagger,  he  spread  some 
honey  on  a  piece  of  bread. 

''Our  honey  is  good,"  said  the  old  man,  evi- 
dently pleased  to  see  Hadji  Murad  eating  his 
honey.  ' '  This  year,  above  all  other  years,  it  is 
plentiful  and  good." 

*'I  thank  thee,"  said  Hadji  Murad,  and 
turned  from  the  table.  Eldar  would  have  liked 
to  go  on  eating,  but  he  followed  his  leader's  ex- 
ample, and,  having  moved  away  from  the  table, 
handed  Hadji  Murad  the  ewer  and  basin. 

Sado  knew  that  he  was  risking  his  life  by 
receiving  Hadji  Murad  in  his  house,  as,  after 
his  quarrel  with  Shamil,  the  latter  had 
issued  a  proclamation  to  all  the  inhabitants  of 
Chechnya  forbidding  them  to  receive  Hadji 
Murad  on  pain  of  death.  He  knew  that  the  in- 
habitants of  the  aoiil  might  at  any  moment  be- 
come aware  of  Hadji  Murad 's  presence  in  his 
house,  and  might  demand  his  surrender ;  but  this 
not  only  did  not  frighten  Sado,  but  even  gave 
him  pleasure.  He  considered  it  his  duty  to 
protect  his  guest  though  it  should  cost  him  his 


HADJI   MURAD  35 

life,  and  he  was  proud  and  pleased  with  himself 
because  he  was  doing  his  duty. 

"Whilst  thou  art  in  my  house  and  my  head 
is  on  my  shoulders  no  one  shall  harm  thee,"  he 
repeated  to  Hadji  Murad. 

Hadji  Murad  looked  into  his  glittering  eyes, 
and  understanding  that  this  was  true,  said  with 
some  solemnity, — 

''Mayest  thou  receive  joy  and  life!" 

Sado  silently  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart  as  a 
sign  of  thanks  for  these  kind  words. 

Having  closed  the  shutters  of  the  sdklya  and 
laid  some  sticks  in  the  fireplace,  Sado,  in  an 
exceptionally  bright  and  animated  mood,  left 
the  room  and  went  into  that  part  of  his  sdklya 
where  his  family  all  lived.  The  women  had  not 
yet  gone  to  sleep,  and  were  talking  about  the 
dangerous  visitors  who  were  spending  the  night 
in  their  guest-chamber. 


1£ 

At  the  advanced  fort  Vozdvizhensk,  situated 
some  ten  miles  from  the  aonl  in  which  Hadji 
Murad  was  spending  the  night,  three  soldiers 
and  a  non-commissioned  officer  left  the  fortifi- 
cations and  went  beyond  the  Shahgirinsk  Gate. 
The  soldiers,  dressed  as  Caucasian  soldiers 
used  to  be  in  those  days,  wore  sheepskin  coats 
and  caps,  and  boots  that  reached  above  their 
knees,  and  they  carried  their  cloaks  tightly 
rolled  up  and  fastened  across  their  shoulders. 
Shouldering  arms,  they  first  went  some  five 
hundred  paces  along  the  road,  and  then  turned 
off  it  and  went  some  twenty  paces  to  the  right — 
the  dead  leaves  rustling  under  their  boots — 
till  they  reached  the  blackened  trunk  of  a  broken 
plane  tree,  just  visible  through  the  darkness. 
There  they  stopped.  It  was  at  this  plane  tree 
that  an  ambush  party  was  usually  placed. 

The  bright  stars,  that  seemed  to  be  running 
along  the  tree-tops  while  the  soldiers  were 
walking   through   the   forest,   now   stood   still, 

36 


HADJI   MURAD  37 

shining  brightly  between  the  bare  branches  of 
the  trees. 

**A  good  job  it's  dry,"  said  the  non-commis- 
sioned officer,  Panov,  bringing  down  his  long 
gun  and  bayonet  with  a  clang  from  his  shoul- 
der, and  placing  it  against  the  plane  tree.  The 
three  soldiers  did  the  same. 

''Sure  enough,  I've  lost  it !"  crossly  muttered 
Panov.  ''Must  have  left  it  behind,  or  I've 
dropped  it  on  the  way." 

"What  are  you  looking  for!"  asked  one  of 
the  soldiers  in  a  bright,  cheerful  voice. 

' '  The  bowl  of  my  pipe.  Where  the  devil  has 
it  got  to?" 

"Have  you  the  stem?"  asked  the  cheerful 
voice. 

"Here's  the  stem." 

"Then  why  not  stick  it  straight  into  the 
ground?" 

"Not  worth  bothering!" 

"We'll  manage  that  in  a  minute." 

It  was  forbidden  to  smoke  while  in  ambush, 
but  this  ambush  hardly  deserved  the  name.  It 
was  rather  an  outpost  to  prevent  the  moun- 
taineers from  bringing  up  a  cannon  unobserved 


38  HADJI   MUEAD 

and  firing  at  the  fort  as  they  used  to  do.  Panov 
did  not  consider  it  necessary  to  forego  the 
pleasure  of  smoking,  and  therefore  accepted  the 
cheerful  soldier's  offer.  The  latter  took  a  knife 
from  his  pocket  and  dug  with  it  a  hole  in  the 
ground.  Having  smoothed  this  round,  he 
adjusted  the  pipe-stem  to  it,  then  filled  the  hole 
with  tobacco  and  pressed  it  down ;  and  the  pipe 
was  ready.  A  sulphur  match  flared  and  for  a 
moment  lit  up  the  broad-cheeked  face  of  the 
soldier  who  lay  on  his  stomach.  The  air 
whistled  in  the  stem,  and  Panov  smelt  the  pleas- 
ant odour  of  burning  tobacco. 

''Fixed  it  up?"  said  he,  rising  to  his  feet. 

"Why,  of  course!" 

"What  a  smart  chap  you  are,  Avdeev! 
.     .     .     As  wise  as  a  judge!     Now  then,  lad." 

Avdeev  rolled  over  on  his  side  to  make  room 
for  Panov,  letting  smoke  escape  from  his 
mouth. 

Panov  lay  down  prone,  and,  after  wiping  the 
mouthpiece  with  his  sleeve,  began  to  inhale. 

When  they  had  had  their  smoke  the  soldiers 
began  to  talk. 

"They  say  the  commander  has  had  his  fin- 


HADJI    MUR  AD  39 

gers  in  the  cash-box  again,"  remarked  one  of 
them  in  a  lazy  voice.  "He  lost  at  cards,  you 
see." 

"He'll  pay  it  back  again,"  said  Panov. 

"Of  course  he  will!  He's  a  good  officer," 
assented  Avdeev. 

"Good!  good!"  gloomily  repeated  the  man 
who  had  started  the  conversation.  "In  my 
opinion  the  company  ought  to  speak  to  him. 
'If  you've  taken  the  money,  tell  us  how  much 
and  when  you'll  repay  it.'  " 

"That  will  be  as  the  company  decides,"  said 
Panov,  tearing  himself  away  from  the  pipe. 

"Of  course.  'The  community  is  a  strong 
man,'  "  assented  Avdeev,  quoting  a  proverb. 

"There  will  be  oats  to  buy  and  boots  to  get 
towards  spring.  The  money  will  be  wanted, 
and  what  if  he's  pocketed  it!"  insisted  the  dis- 
satisfied one. 

"I  tell  you  it  will  be  as  the  company  wishes," 
repeated  Panov.  "It's  not  the  first  time:  he 
takes,  and  gives  back." 

In  the  Caucasus  in  those  days  each  company 
chose  men  to  manage  its  own  commissariat.. 
They  received  6  roubles  50  kopeks  a  month  per 


40  HADJI   MURAD 

man  ^  from  the  treasury,  and  catered  for  the 
company.  They  planted  cabbages,  made  hay, 
had  their  own  carts,  and  prided  themselves  on 
their  well-fed  horses.  The  company's  money 
was  kept  in  a  chest,  of  which  the  commander 
had  the  key ;  and  it  often  happened  that  he  bor- 
rowed from  the  chest.  This  had  just  happened 
again,  and  that  was  what  the  soldiers  were 
talking  about.  The  morose  soldier,  Nikitin, 
wished  to  demand  an  account  from  the  com- 
mander, while  Panov  and  Avdeev  considered 
it  unnecessary. 

After  Panov,  Nikitin  had  a  smoke ;  and  then, 
spreading  his  cloak  on  the  ground,  sat  down  on 
it,  leaning  against  the  trunk  of  the  plane  tree. 
The  soldiers  were  silent.  Only  far  above  their 
heads  the  crowns  of  the  trees  rustled  in  the 
wind.  Suddenly,  above  this  incessant  low 
rustling,  rose  the  howling  whining  weeping  and 
chuckling  of  jackals. 

'^Hear  those  accursed  creatures — how  they 
caterwaul!" 

"They're  laughing  at  you  because  your  mug's 

1  About  f  1,  for  at  that  time  the  rouble  was  worth  about 
three  shillings. 


HADJI   MUR AD  41 

all  on  one  side,"  remarked  the  high  voice  of 
another  soldier,  a  Little  Russian. 

All  was  silent  again:  only  the  wind  swayed 
the  branches,  now  revealing  and  now  hiding 
the  stars. 

''I  say,  Panov,"  suddenly  asked  the  cheer- 
ful Avdeev,  ''do  you  ever  feel  dull!" 

"Dull,  why?"  replied  Panov  reluctantly. 

''Well,  I  do  feel  dull  ...  so  dull  some- 
times that  I  don't  know  what  I  might  not  be 
ready  to  do  to  myself." 

"There  now!"  was  all  Panov  replied. 

"That  time  when  I  drank  all  the  money,  it 
was  from  dulness.  It  took  hold  of  me  .  .  . 
took  hold  of  me  till  I  thinks  to  myself,  'I'll  just 
get  blind  drunk!'  " 

"But  sometimes  drinking  makes  it  still 
worse." 

"Yes,  that's  happened  to  me  too.  But  what 
is  one  to  do  with  oneself?" 

"But  what  makes  you  feel  so  dull?" 

"What,  me?  .  .  .  Why,  it's  the  longing 
for  home." 

"Is  yours  a  wealthy  home,  then?" 

"No,  we  weren't  wealthy,  but  things  went 


42  HADJI    MURAD 

properly — we  lived  well."  And  Avdeev  began 
to  relate  what  he  had  already  many  times  told 
to  Panov. 

''You  see,  I  went  as  a  soldier  of  mv  own  free 
will,  instead  of  my  brother,"  he  said.  "He 
has  children.  They  were  five  in  family,  and 
I  had  only  just  married.  Mother  began  beg- 
ging me  to  go.  So  I  thought,  'Well,  maybe 
they  will  remember  what  I've  done.'  So  I  went 
to  our  proprietor  ...  he  was  a  good  mas- 
ter, and  he  said,  'You're  a  fine  fellow,  go!' 
So  I  went  instead  of  my  brother." 

"Well,  that  was  right,"  said  Panov. 

"And  5^et,  will  you  believe  me,  Panov,  if  I 
now  feel  so  dull,  it's  chiefly  because  of  that? 
'Why  did  you  go  instead  of  your  brother?'  I 
say.  'He's  now  living  like  a  king  over  there, 
while  I  have  to  suffer  here;'  and  the  more  I 
think  the  worse  I  feel.  .  .  .  Seems  it's 
just  a  piece  of  ill-luck!" 

Avdeev  was  silent. 

"Perhaps  we'd  better  have  another  smoke, '^ 
said  he  after  a  pause. 

"Well  then,  fix  it  up!" 

But  the  soldiers  were  not  to  have  their  smoke. 


HADJI   MURAD  43 

Hardly  had  Avdeev  risen  to  fix  the  pipe  stem 
in  its  place  when  above  the  rustling  of  the 
trees  they  heard  footsteps  along  the  road. 
Panov  took  his  gun,  and  pushed  Nikitin  with 
his  foot. 

Nikitin  rose  and  picked  up  his  cloak. 

The  third  soldier,  Bondarenko,  rose  also,  and 
said, — 

''And  I  have  just  dreamt  such  a  dream, 
mates.     .     .     ." 

"8h!"  said  Avdeev,  and  the  soldiers  held 
their  breath,  listening.  The  footsteps  of  men 
not  shod  in  hard  boots  were  heard  approaching. 
Clearer  and  clearer  through  the  darkness  was 
heard  a  rustling  o'f  the  fallen  leaves  and  dry 
twigs.  Then  came  the  peculiar  guttural  tones 
of  Chechen  voices.  The  soldiers  now  not  only 
heard,  but  saw  two  shadows  passing  through 
a  clear  space  between  the  trees.  One  shadow 
was  taller  than  the  other.  When  these  shad- 
ows had  come  in  line  with  the  soldiers,  Panov, 
gun  in  hand,  stepped  out  on  to  the  road,  fol- 
lowed by  his  comrades. 

''Who  goes  there?"  cried  he. 
■Me,   friendly   Chechen,"    said   the   shorter 


(( 


44  HADJI   MURAD 

one.  This  was  Bata.  "Gun,  yok!^  .  .  . 
sword,  yok!"  said  he,  pointing  to  himself. 
'^Prince,  want!" 

The  taller  one  stood  silent  beside  his  com- 
rade.    He,  too,  was  unarmed. 

"He  means  he's  a  scout,  and  wants  the 
colonel,"  explained  Panov  to  his  comrades. 

"Prince  Vorontsov  .  .  .  much  want! 
Big  business!"  said  Bata. 

' '  All  right,  all  right !  We  '11  take  you  to  him, ' ' 
said  Panov.  "I  say,  you'd  better  take  them," 
said  he  to  Avdeev,  "you  and  Bondarenko;  and 
when  you  've  given  them  up  to  the  officer  on  duty 
come  back  again.  Mind,"  he  added,  "be  care- 
ful to  make  them  keep  in  front'  of  you ! ' ' 

"And  what  of  this?"  said  Avdeev,  moving 
his  gun  and  bayonet  as  though  stabbing  some 
one.  "I'd  just  give  a  dig,  and  let  the  steam 
out  of  him ! ' ' 

"What '11  he  be  worth  when  you've  stuck 
him!"  remarked  Bondarenko. 

"Now,  march!" 

When  the  steps  of  the  two  soldiers  conduct- 

2  Yok,  no,  not. 


HADJI   MURAD  45 

ing  the  scouts  could  no  longer  be  heard,  Panov 
and  Nikitin  returned  to  their  post. 

''What  the  devil  brings  them  here  at  night?" 
said  Nikitin. 

"Seems  it's  necessary,"  said  Panov.  "But 
it's  getting  chilly,"  he  added,  and,  unrolling 
his  cloak,  he  put  it  on  and  sat  down  by  the  tree. 

About  two  hours  later  Avdeev  and  Bondar- 
enko  returned. 

"Well,  have  you  handed  them  over!" 

"Yes.  They're  not  yet  asleep  at  the  colonel's 
— they  were  taken  straight  in  to  him.  And  do 
you  know,  mates,  those  shaven-headed  lads  are 
fine?"  continued  Avdeev.  "Yes,  really?  What 
a  talk  I  had  with  them!" 

"Of  course  you'd  talk,"  remarked  Nikitin 
disapprovingly. 

"Really,  they're  just  like  Russians.  One  of 
them  is  married.  'Molly,'  says  I,  ^harf'^ 
'Bar/  he  says.  Bondarenko,  didn't  I  say  'harf 
'Many  harT  'A  couple,'  says  he.  A  couple! 
Such  a  good  talk  we  had !    Such  nice  fellows ! ' ' 

"Nice,  indeed!"  said  Nikitin.  "If  you  met 
him  alone  he'd  soon  let  the  guts  out  of  you." 

3  Bar,  have. 


46  HADJI    MURAD 

"It  will  be  getting  light  before  long,"  said 
Panov. 

"Yes,  the  stars  are  beginning  to  go  out,"  said 
Avdeev,  sitting  down  and  making  himself  com- 
fortable. 

And  the  soldiers  were  again  silent. 


Ill 

The  windows  of  the  barracks  and  of  the  sol- 
diers' houses  had  long  been  dark  in  the  fort; 
but  there  was  still  light  in  the  windows  of  the 
best  house  there. 

In  it  lived  Prince  Simon  Mikhailovich  Vor- 
ontsov,  commander  of  the  Kurin  Regiment,  an 
imperial  aide-de-camp,  and  son  of  the  com- 
mander-in-chief. Vorontsov  lived  with  his  wife, 
Mary  Vasilevna,  a  famous  Petersburg  beauty, 
and  lived  in  this  little  Caucasian  fort  more  lux- 
uriously than  any  one  had  ever  lived  there  be- 
fore. To  Vorontsov,  and  especially  to  his  wife, 
it  seemed  that  they  were  not  only  living  a  very 
modest  life,  but  one  full  of  privations;  while 
to  the  inhabitants  of  the  place  their  luxury  was 
surprising  and  extraordinary. 

Now  at  midnight,  in  the  spacious  drawing- 
room  with  its  carpeted  floor,  its  rich  curtains 
drawn  across  the  windows,  at  a  card  table  lit 
by  four  candles,  sat  the  hosts  and  their  vis- 
itors, playing  cards.     One  of  the  players  was 

47 


48  HADJI   MURAD 

Vorontsov  himself:  a  long-faced,  fair-haired 
colonel,  wearing  the  initials  and  gold  cords  of 
an  aide-de-camp.  His  partner — a  graduate  of 
Petersburg  University,  whom  the  Princess  Vor- 
ontsov had  lately  had  sent  out  as  tutor  to  her 
little  son  (born  of  her  first  marriage )-^was  a 
shaggy  young  man  of  gloomy  appearance. 
Against  them  played  two  officers:  one  a  broad 
and  red-faced  man,  Poltoratsky,  a  company 
commander,  who  had  exchanged  out  of  the 
guards ;  and  the  other,  the  regimental  adjutant, 
a  man  with  a  cold  expression  on  his  handsome 
face,  who  sat  very  straight  on  his  chair. 

The  princess,  Mary  Vasilevna,  the  large- 
built  large-eyed  and  black-browed  beauty,  sat 
beside  Poltoratsky  (her  crinoline  touching  his 
legs)  and  looked  over  his  cards.  In  her  words, 
her  looks,  and  her  smile,  in  her  perfume  and  in 
every  movement  of  her  body,  there  was  some- 
thing that  reduced  Poltoratsky  to  obliviousness 
of  everything  except  a  consciousness  of  her 
nearness;  and  he  made  blunder  after  blunder, 
trying  his  partner's  temper  more  and  more. 

''No  .  .  .  that's  too  bad!  You've  again 
wasted  an  ace,"  said  the  regimental  Adjutant, 


HADJI   MURAD  49 

flushing  all  over,  as  Poltoratsky  threw  out  an 
ace. 

PoltorAtsky  uncomprehendingly — as  though 
he  had  just  awoke — turned  his  kindly,  wide-set 
black  eyes  towards  the  dissatisfied  Adjutant. 

''Do  forgive  him!"  said  Mary  Vasilevna, 
smiling.  "There,  you  seel  Didn't  I  tell  you 
so?"  she  went  on,  turning  to  Poltoratsky. 

"But  that's  not  at  all  what  you  said,"  replied 
Poltoratsky,  smiling. 

"Wasn't  it?"  she  replied,  also  smiling;  and 
this  answering  smile  excited  and  delighted  Pol- 
toratsky to  such  a  degree  that  he  blushed  crim- 
son, and  seizing  the  cards  began  to  shuffle. 

"It  isn't  your  turn  to  deal,"  said  the  Ad- 
jutant sternly,  and  with  his  white  ringed  hand 
he  himself  began  to  deal  as  though  he  only 
wished  to  get  rid  of  the  cards  as  quickly  as 
possible. 

The  Prince's  valet  entered  the  drawing- 
room,  and  announced  that  the  officer  on  duty 
wanted  the  Prince. 

"Excuse  me,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Prince, 
speaking  Eussian  with  an  English  accent. 
"Will  you  take  my  place,  Marie?" 


50  HADJI   MURAD 

''Do  you  all  agree?"  asked  the  Princess,  ris- 
ing quickly  and  lighlly  to  her  full  height, 
rustling  with  her  silks,  and  smiling  the  radiant 
smile  of  a  happy  woman. 

"I  always  agree  to  everything,"  replied  the 
Adjutant,  very  pleased  that  the  Princess — who 
could  not  play  at  all — was  now  going  to  play 
against  him. 

Poltoratsky  only  spread  out  his  hands  and 
smiled. 

The  rubber  was  nearly  finished  when  the 
Prince  returned  to  the  drawing-room.  He 
came  back  animated  and  very  pleased. 

*'Do  you  know  what  I  propose?" 

''What  is  it?" 

*'Let  us  have  some  champagne." 

"I  am  always  ready  for  that,"  said  Poltor- 
dtsky. 

' '  Wliy  not  ?  We  shall  be  delighted ! ' '  said  the 
Adjutant. 

"Vasily!  bring  some!"  said  the  Prince. 

"What  did  they  want  you  for?"  asked  Mary 
Vasilevna. 

"It   was    the    officer   on   duty,   and   another 


man. ' ' 


HADJI   MUR  AD  51 


<<■ 


Who?     What  about?"  asked  Mary  Vasil- 
evna  quickly. 

^'I  mustn't  say,"  said  Vorontsov,  shrugging 
his  shoulders. 

"You  mustn't  say!"  repeated  Mary  Vasi'l- 
evna.     "We'll  see  about  that." 

When  the  champagne  was  brought,  each  of 
the  visitors  drank  a  glass ;  and,  having  finished 
the  game  and  settled  the  scores,  they  began  to 
take  their  leave. 

"Is  it  your  company  that's  ordered  to  the 
forest  to-morrow  I"  the  Prince  asked  Poltor- 
^tsky  as  they  said  good-bye. 

"Yes,  mine     .     .     .     why?" 

"Oh,  then  we'll  meet  to-morrow,"  said  the 
Prince,  slightly  smiling. 

"Very  pleased,"  replied  Poltoratsky,  not 
quite  understanding  what  Vorontsov  was  saying 
to  him,  and  preoccupied  only  by  the  thought 
that  he  would  in  a  minute  be  pressing  Mary 
Vasilevna's  hand. 

Mary  Vasilevna,  according  to  her  wont,  not 
only  firmly  pressed  his  hand,  but  shook  it  vig- 
orously; and  again  reminding  him  of  his  mis- 
take in  playing  diamonds,  she  gave  him  what 


52  HADJI   MURAD 

appeared  to  Poltoratsky  to  be  a  delightful  af- 
fectionate and  meaning  smile. 

Poltoratsky  went  home  in  an  ecstatic  condi- 
tion only  to  be  understood  by  people  like  him- 
self who,  having  grown  up  and  been  educated 
in  society,  meet  a  woman  belonging  to  their 
own  circle  after  months  of  isolated  military  life, 
and,  moreover,  a  woman  like  the  Princess  Vor- 
ontsov. 

When  he  reached  the  little  house  in  which  he 
and  his  comrade  lived  he  pushed  the  door,  but 
it  was  locked.  He  knocked,  but  still  the  door 
was  not  opened.  He  felt  vexed,  and  began 
banging  the  door  with  his  foot  and  his  sword. 
Then  he  heard  a  sound  of  footsteps,  and  Vovilo 
— a  domestic  serf  belonging  to  Poltoratsky — 
undid  the  cabin-hook  which  fastened  the  door. 

''What  do  you  mean  by  locking  yourself  in, 
blockhead?" 

''But  how  is  it  possible,  sir    .     .     .     ?" 

"You're  tipsy  again!  I'll  show  you  how  'it 
is  possible!'  "  and  Poltoratsky  was  about  to 
strike  Vovilo,  but  changed  his  mind.  "Well,  go 
to  the  devil !     .    .    .    Light  a  candle. ' ' 


HADJI   MURAD  53 

*'In  a  minute." 

Vovilo  was  really  tipsy.  He  had  been  drink- 
ing at  the  Name's-Day  party  of  the  ordnance- 
sergeant.  On  returning  home  he  began  com- 
paring his  life  with  that  of  the  latter,  Ivan  Pet- 
rovich.  Ivan  Petrovich  had  a  salary,  was  mar- 
ried, and  hoped  in  a  year's  time  to  get  his  dis- 
charge. 

Vovilo  had  been  taken  *'np"  when  a  boy; 
that  is,  he  had  been  taken  into  his  owner's 
household  service;  and  now  he  was  already  over 
forty,  was  not  married,  and  lived  a  campaign- 
ing life  with  his  harum-scarum  young  master. 
He  was  a  good  master,  who  seldom  struck  him; 
but  what  kind  of  a  life  was  it?  ''He  promised 
to  free  me  when  we  return  from  the  Caucasus, 
but  where  am  I  to  go  with  my  freedom  ?  .  .  . 
It's  a  dog's  life!"  thought  Vovilo;  and  he  felt 
so  sleepy  that,  afraid  lest  some  one  should  come 
in  and  steal  something,  he  fastened  the  hook 
of  the  door  and  fell  asleep. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Poltoriitsky  entered  his  bedroom,  which  he 
shared  with  his  comrade  Tikhonof. 


54  HADJI   MUR  AD 

"Well,  have  you  lost?"  asked  Tikhonof,  wak- 
ing up. 

'*As  it  happens,  I've  not.  I've  won  seven- 
teen roubles,  and  we  drank  a  bottle  of  Cliquot!" 

**And  you've  looked  at  Mary  Vasilevna?" 

*'Yes,  and  I've  looked  at  Mary  Vasilevna," 
repeated  Poltoratsky. 

*'It  will  soon  be  time  to  get  up,"  said  Tik- 
honof.    "We  are  to  start  at  six." 

"Vovilo!"  shouted  Poltoratsky,  "see  that 
you  wake  me  up  properly  to-morrow  at  five!" 

"How's  one  to  wake  you,  if  you  fight?" 

"I  tell  you  you're  to  wake  me!  Do  you 
hear?" 

"All  right."  Vovilo  went  out,  taking  Pol- 
toratsky's  boots  and  clothes  with  him.  Pol- 
toratsky^ got  into  bed,  and  smiling,  smoked  a 
cigarette  and  put  out  his  candle.  In  the  dark 
he  saw  before  him  the  smiling  face  of  Mary 
Vasilevna. 

•  •  •  •  • 

The  Vorontsovs  did  not  go  to  bed  at  once. 
When  the  visitors  had  left,  Mary  Vasilevna 
went  up  to  her  husband,  and  standing  in  front 
of  him,  said  severely, — 


HADJI    MUR  AD  55 

^'Eli  hien!    Voiis  allez  me  dire  ce  que  c'est."  ' 

''Mais,  ma  chere." 

''Pas  de  'ma  chere'!  C'etait  un  emissaire, 
n'est  ce  pasf" 

"Qitand  meme,  je  ne  puis  pas  vous  le  dire." 

"Vous  ne  pouvez  pasf  Alors,  c'est  moi  qui 
vais  vous  le  dire!" 

"Vous?" 

"It  was  Hadji  Murad,  wasn't  it?"  said  Mary 
Vasileviia,  who  had  for  some  days  past  heard 
of  the  negotiations,  and  thought  that  Hadji 
Murad  himself  had  been  to  see  her  liusband. 
Vorontsov  could  not  altogether  deny  this,  but 
disappointed  her  by  saying  that  it  was  not 
Hadji  Murad  himself  but  only  an  emissary  to 
announce  that  Hadji  Murad  would  come  to 
meet  him  next  day,  at  the  spot  where  a  wood- 
cutting expedition  had  been  arranged. 

In  the  monotonous  life  of  the  fortress,  the 


1  "Well,    now !     You're    going    to    tell    me    what    it's    all 

about     .     .     ." 

"But,  my  dear     .     .     ." 

"Don't  'my  dear'  me!     It  was  an  emissary,  wasn't  it?" 

"Well,  supposing  it  was.  still  I  must  not  tell  you." 

"You     must     not?     Well,     then,     it's     I     who     will     tell 

you     .     .     ." 
"You?" 


56  HADJI   MURAD 

young  Vorontsovs — ^both  husband  and  wife — 
were  glad  of  this  occurrence;  and  when,  after 
speaking  of  the  pleasure  the  news  would  give 
his  father,  they  went  to  bed,  it  was  already  past 
two  o'clock. 


IV 

After  the  three  sleepless  nights  he  had  passed 
flying  from  the  murids  Shamil  sent  to  capture 
him,  Hadji  Murad  fell  asleep  as  soon  as  Sado, 
having  bid  him  good-night,  had  gone  out  of  the 
sciklya.  He  slept  fully  dressed,  with  his  head 
on  his  hand,  his  elbow  sinking  deep  into  the 
red  down-cushions  his  host  had  arranged  for 
him. 

At  a  little  distance,  by  the  wall,  slept  Eldar. 
He  lay  on  his  back,  his  strong  young  limbs 
stretched  out  so  that  his  high  chest  with  the 
black  cartridge-pouches  sewn  into  the  front  of 
his  white  Circassian  coat  was  higher  than  his 
freshly-shaven  blue-gleaming  head,  which  had 
rolled  off  the  pillow  and  was  thrown  back.  His 
upper  lip,  on  which  a  little  soft  down  was  just 
appearing,  pouted  like  a  child's,  now  contract- 
ing and  now  expanding,  as  though  he  were 
sipping  something.  He,  like  Hadji  Murad, 
slept  with  pistol  and  dagger  in  his  belt.     The 

57 


58  HADJI    MURAD 

sticks  in  the  grate  burnt  low,  and  a  nightlight 
in  the  niche  in  the  wall  gleamed  faintly. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  the  floor  of  the 
guest-chamber  creaked,  and  Hadji  Murad  im- 
mediately rose,  putting  his  hand  to  his  pistol. 
Sado  entered  treading  softly  on  the  earthen 
floor. 

"What  is  itr'  asked  Hadji  Murad,  as  if  he 
had  not  been  asleep  at  all. 

**We  must  think,"  replied  Sado,  squatting 
down  in  front  of  him,  ''A  woman  from  her 
roof  saw  j^ou  arrive,  and  told  her  husband ;  and 
now  the  whole  aoul  knows.  A  neighbour  has 
just  been  to  tell  my  wife  that  the  Elders  have 
assembled  in  the  mosque,  and  want  to  detain 
you." 

' '  I  must  be  off ! "  said  Hadji  Mur.^d. 

"The  horses  are  saddled,"  said  Sado,  quickly 
leaving  the  suMya. 

"Eldar!"  whispered  Hadji  Murad;  and  El- 
d^r,  hearing  his  name,  and  above  all  his  mas- 
ter's voice,  leapt  to  his  feet,  setting  straight 
his  cap. 

Hadji  Murad  donned  his  weapons  and  then 
his  hurka.    Eldar  did  the  same;  and  they  both 


HADJIMURAD  59 

went  silently  out  of  the  saklya  into  the  pent- 
house. The  black-eyed  boy  brought  their 
horses.  Hearing  the  clatter  of  hoofs  on  the 
hard  beaten  road,  some  one  stuck  his  head  out 
of  the  door  of  a  neighbourng  sdhlya,  and,  clat- 
tering with  his  wooden  shoes,  a  man  ran  up  the 
hill  towards  the  mosque.  There  was  no  moon, 
but  the  stars  shone  brightly  in  the  black  sky, 
so  that  the  outlines  of  the  saklya  roofs  could 
be  seen  in  the  darkness,  and  rising  above  the 
other  buildings,  the  mosque  with  its  minarets 
in  the  upper  part  of  the  village.  From  the 
mosque  came  a  hum  of  voices. 

Hadji  Murad,  quickly  seizing  his  gun,  placed 
his  foot  in  the  narrow  stirrup,  and,  silently  and 
easily  throwing  his  body  across,  swung  himself 
on  to  the  high  cushion  of  the  saddle. 

"May  God  reward  you!"  he  said,  address- 
ing his  host,  while  his  right  foot  felt  instinc- 
tively for  the  stirrup,  and  with  his  whip  he 
lightly  touched  the  lad  who  held  his  horse,  as 
a  sign  that  he  should  let  go.  The  boy  stepped 
aside;  and  the  horse,  as  if  it  knew  what  it  had 
to  do,  started  at  a  brisk  pace  down  the  lane 
towards  the  principal  street.     Eld^r  rode  be- 


60  HADJI   MURAD 

hind  him.  Sado  in  his  sheepskin  followed  al- 
most running,  swinging  his  arms,  and  crossing 
now  to  one  side  and  now  to  the  other  of  the 
narrow  side-street.  At  the  place  where  the 
streets  met,  first  one  moving  shadow  and  then 
another  appeared  in  the  road. 

''Stop  .  .  .  who's  that?  Stop!"  shouted 
a  voice,  and  several  men  blocked  the  path. 

Instead  of  stopping,  Hadji  Murad  drew  his 
pistol  from  his  belt,  and  increasing  his  speed 
rode  straight  at  those  who  blocked  the  way. 
They  separated,  and  Hadji  Muriid  without 
looking  round  started  down  the  road  at  a  swift 
canter.  Eldar  followed  him  at  a  sharp  trot. 
Two  shots  cracked  behind  them,  and  two  bul- 
lets whistled  past  without  hitting  either  Hadji 
Murad  or  Eldar.  Hadji  Murad  continued  rid- 
ing at  the  same  pace,  but  having  gone  some 
three  hundred  yards,  he  stopped  his  slightly 
panting  horse,  and  listened. 

In  front  of  him,  lower  down,  gurgled  rapidly 
running  water.  Behind  him,  in  the  aoul,  cocks 
crowed,  answering  one  another.  Above  these 
sounds  he  heard  behind  him  the  approaching 
tramp  of  horses,  and  the  voices  of  several  men. 


HADJI   MUR AD  61 

Hadji  Murad  touched  his  liorse  and  rode  on  at 
an  even  pace.  Those  behind  him  galloped  and 
soon  overtook  him.  They  were  some  twenty 
mounted  men,  inhabitants  of  the  aoiil,  who  had 
decided  to  detain  Hadji  Murad,  or  at  least  to 
make  a  show  of  detaining  him  in  order  to  jus- 
tify themselves  in  Shamil's  eyes.  When  they 
came  near  enough  to  be  seen  in  the  darkness, 
Hadji  Murad  stopped,  let  go  his  bridle,  and 
with  an  accustomed  movement  of  his  left  hand 
unbuttoned  the  cover  of  his  rifle,  which  he  drew 
forth  with  his  right.     Eldar  did  the  same. 

''What  do  you  want?"  cried  Hadji  Murad. 
''Do  you  wish  to  take  me!  .  .  .  Take  me, 
then!"  and  he  raised  his  rifle.  The  men  from 
the  aoiil  stopped,  and  Hadji  Murad,  rifle  in 
hand,  rode  down  into  the  ravine.  The  mounted 
men  followed  him,  but  did  not  draw  any  nearer. 
When  Hadji  Murad  had  crossed  to  the  other 
side  of  the  ravine,  the  men  shouted  to  him  that 
he  should  hear  what  they  had  to  say.  In  re- 
ply he  fired  his  rifle  and  put  his  horse  to  a 
gallop.  When  he  reined  it  in,  his  pursuers  were 
no  longer  within  hearing,  and  the  crowing  of 
the  cocks  could  also  no  longer  be  heard;  only 


62  HADJI   MURAD 

the  mnrmnr  of  the  water  in  the  forest  sounded 
more  distinctly,  and  now  and  then  came  the  cry 
of  an  owl.  The  black  wall  of  forest  appeared 
quite  close.  It  was  in  this  forest  that  his 
murids  awaited  him. 

On  reaching  it  Hadji  Murad  paused,  and 
drawing  much  air  into  his  lungs,  he  whistled 
and  then  listened  silently.  The  next  minute  he 
was  answered  by  a  similar  whistle  from  the 
forest.  Hadji  Murad  turned  from  the  road  and 
entered  it.  When  he  had  gone  about  a  hun- 
dred paces,  he  saw  among  the  trunks  of  the 
trees  a  bonfire,  and  the  shadows  of  some  men 
sitting  round  it,  and,  half  lit-up  by  the  fire- 
light, a  hobbled  horse  which  was  saddled.  Four 
men  were  seated  by  the  fire. 

One  of  them  rose  quickly,  and  coming  up  to 
Hadji  Muriid  took  hold  of  his  bridle  and 
stirrup.  This  was  Hadji  Murad 's  sworn 
brother,  who  managed  his  household  affairs  for 
him. 

"Put  out  the  fire,"  said  Hadji  Murad,  dis- 
mounting. 

The  men  began  scattering  the  pile,  and  tram- 
pling on  the  burning  branches. 


HADJI   MUR  AD  63 

"Has  Bata  been  here?"  asked  Hadji  Mur^d, 
moving-  towards  a  hurka  that  was  spread  on 
the  ground. 

''Yes,  he  went  away  long  ago,  with  Khan 
Mahomtl'^ 

' '  Which  way  did  they  go  ?  " 

"That  way,"  answered  Khanefi,  pointing  in 
the  opposite  direction  to  that  from  which  Hadji 
Murad  had  come. 

"All  right,"  said  Hadji  Murad,  and  unsling- 
ing  his  rifle  he  began  to  load  it. 

"We  must  take  care — I  have  been  pursued," 
said  Hadji  Murad  to  a  man  who  was  putting 
out  the  fire. 

He  was  Gamzalo,  a  Chechen.  Gamzalo  ap- 
proached the  hurka,  took  up  a  rifle  that  lay  on 
it-  wrapped  in  its  cover,  and  without  a  word 
.went  to  that  side  of  the  glade  from  which  Hadji 
Murad  had  come. 

Eldar,  when  he  had  dismounted,  took  Hadji 
Murad's  horse;  and  having  reined  up  both 
horses'  heads  high,  tied  them  to  two  trees. 
Then  he  shouldered  his  rifle,  as  Gamziilo  had 
done,  and  went  to  the  other  side  of  the  glade. 
The   bonfire  was   extinguished,   the   forest   no 


64  HADJI   MURAD 

longer  looked  so  black  as  before,  and  in  the  sky 
the  stars  shone,  though  but  faintly. 

Lifting  his  eyes  to  the  stars,  and  seeing  that 
the  Pleiades  had  already  risen  half-way  up  the 
sky,  Hadji  Murad  calculated  that  it  must  be 
long  past  midnight,  and  that  his  nightly  prayer 
was  long  overdue.  He  asked  Khaneti  for  a 
ewer  (they  always  carried  one  in  their  packs), 
and  putting  on  his  hurka  he  went  to  the  water. 

Having  taken  off  his  shoes  and  performed  his 
ablutions,  Hadji  Murad  stepped  on  to  the  hurka 
with  bare  feet,  and  then  squatted  down  on  his 
calves,  and  having  first  placed  his  fingers  in 
his  ears  and  closed  his  eyes,  he  turned  to  the 
south  and  recited  the  usual  prayer. 

When  he  had  finished  he  returned  to  the 
place  where  the  saddle-bags  lay,  and  sitting- 
down  on  the  hurka  he  leant  his  elbows  on  his 
knees  and  bowed  his  head,  and  fell  into  deep 
thought. 

Hadji  Murad  always  had  great  faith  in  his 
own  fortune.  When  planning  anything  he  felt 
in  advance  firmly  convinced  of  success,  and 
fate  smiled  on  him.  It  was  so,  with  a  few  rare 
exceptions,  during  the  whole  course  of  his 
stormy  military  life;  and  so  he  hoped  it  would 


HADJI   MURAD  65 

be  now.  He  pictured  to  himself  how — with  the 
army  Vorontsov  would  place  at  his  disposal — 
he  would  march  against  Shamil  and  take  him 
prisoner,  and  revenge  himself  on  him ;  and  how 
the  Russian  Tsar  would  reward  him,  and  he 
would  again  rule  over  not  only  Avaria,  but  also 
over  the  whole  of  Chechnya,  which  would  sub- 
mit to  him.  With  these  thoughts  he  fell  asleep 
before  he  was  aware  of  it. 

He  dreamt  how  he  and  his  brave  followers 
rushed  at  Shamil,  with  songs  and  with  the  cry, 
''Hadji  Murad  is  coming!"  and  how  they 
seized  him  and  his  wives,  and  he  heard  the 
wives  crying  and  sobbing.  He  woke  up.  The 
song,  Lya-il-allysha,  and  the  cry,  ''Hadji  Murad 
is  coming!"  and  the  weeping  of  Shamil's  wives, 
was  the  howling  weeping  and  laughter  of  jack- 
als that  awoke  him.  Hadji  Murad  lifted  his 
head,  glanced  at  the  sky  which  seen  between  the 
trunks  of  the  trees  was  already  getting  light 
in  the  east,  and  inquired  after  Khan  Mahonui 
of  a  murid  who  sat  at  some  distance  from  him. 
On  hearing  that  Khan  Mahoma  had  not  yet  re- 
turned, Hadji  Murad  again  bowed  his  head  and 
fell  asleep  at  once. 

He  was  awakened  by  the  merry  voice  of  Khan 


66  HADJI   MURAD 

Mahoma,  returning  from  his  mission  with  Bata. 
Khan  Mahoma  at  once  sat  down  beside  Hadji 
Murad,  and  told  him  how  the  soldiers  had  met 
them  and  had  led  them  to  the  Prince  himself; 
and  how  pleased  the  Prince  was,  and  how  he 
promised  to  meet  them  in  the  morning,  where 
the  Russians  would  be  felling  trees  beyond  the 
Mitchik,  in  the  Shalin  glade.  Bata  interrupted 
his  fellow-envoy  to  add  details  of  his  own. 

Hadji  Murad  asked  particularly  for  the  words 
with  which  Vorontsov  had  answered  his  offer 
to  go  over  to  the  Russians ;  and  Khan  Mahoma 
and  Bata  replied  with  one  voice  that  the  Prince 
promised  to  receive  Hadji  Murad  as  a  guest, 
and  to  act  so  that  it  should  be  well  for  him. 

Then  Hadji  Murad  questioned  them  about 
the  road,  and  when  Khan  Mahoma  assured 
him  that  he  knew  the  way  well,  and  would  con- 
duct him  straight  to  the  spot,  Hadji  Murad 
took  out  some  money  and  gave  Bata  the  prom- 
ised three  roubles;  and  he  ordered  his  men  to 
take  out  of  the  saddle-bags  his  gold-ornamented 
weapons  and  his  turban,  and  to  clean  them- 
selves up  so  as  to  look  well  when  they  arrived 
among  the  Russians. 


HADJI  MUR  AD  67 

While  they  cleaned  their  weapons,  harness 

and  horses,  the  stars  faded  away;  it  became 

quite    light,    and    an  ^arly    morning    breeze 
sprang  up. 


Eablt  in  the  morainsr,  ^hile  it  ^vas  still  dark. 
tvro  companies,  carrying  axes  and  commanded 
hv  Poltoratskv,  marched  six  miles  bevond  the 
Shahgirinsk  Gate,  and  having  thrown  out  a  line 
of  sharpshooters,  set  to  work  to  fell  trees  as 
soon  as  the  day  broke.  Towards  eight  o'clock 
the  mist  which  had  mingled  with  the  perfnmed 
smoke  of  the  hissing  and  crackling  damp  green 
branches  on  the  bonfires  began  to  rise,  and  the 
wood-fellers — who  till  then  had  not  seen  five 
paces  off,  but  had  only  heard  one  another — 
began  to  se£  both  the  bonfires  and  the  road 
through  the  forest,  blocked  with  fallen  trees. 
The  sun  now  appeared  like  a  bright  spot  in  the 
fog,  and  now  again  was  hidden. 

In  the  glade,  some  way  from  the  road.  Pol- 
toratsky,  and  his  subaltern  Tikhonof.  two  of- 
ficers of  the  3rd  Company,  and  Baron  Freze, 
an  ex-of&cer  of  the  Guards  who  had  been  re- 
duced to  the  ranks  for  a  duel,  a  fellow-student 
of  Poltoratskv's  at  the  Cadet  College,  were  sit- 

68 


HADJI    MUR  AD  69 

ting  on  (Irnm^.  Bits  of  pajier  that  had  con- 
tained food,  cigarette  stumps,  and  empty  bot- 
tles hiy  scattered  round  the  drums.  The  of- 
ficers had  had  some  vodka,  and  were  now  eating, 
and  drinking  porter.  A  drummer  was  uncork- 
ing their  third  bottle. 

Poltoratsky,  although  he  had  not  had  enough 
sleep,  was  in  that  peculiar  state  of  elation  and 
kindly  careless  gaiety  which  he  always  felt 
when  he  found  himself  among  his  soldiers  and 
with  his  comrades,  where  there  was  a  possi- 
bility of  danger. 

The  officers  were  carrying  on  an  animated 
conversation,  the  subject  of  which  was  the  latest 
news:  the  death  of  General  Sleptsov.  Xone  of 
them  saw  in  this  death  that  most  important 
moment  of  a  life — its  termination  and  return 
to  the  source  whence  it  sprang — but  they  only 
saw  in  it  the  valour  of  a  gallant  officer,  who 
rushed  at  the  mountaineers  sword  in  hand  and 
desperately  hacked  them. 

Though  all  of  them — and  especially  those  who 
had  been  in  action — knew  and  could  not  help 
knowing  that  never  in  those  days  in  the  Cau- 
casus, nor  in  fact  auv^vhere.  nor  at  any  time. 


70  HADJI   MUR  AD 

did  such  hand-to-band  hacking  as  is  always 
imagined  and  described  take  place  (or  if  hack- 
ing with  swords  and  bayonets  ever  does  take 
place,  it  is  only  those  who  are  running  away 
that  get  hacked),  that  fiction  of  hand-to-hand 
fighting  endowed  them  with  the  calm  pride  and 
cheerfulness  with  which  they  sat  on  drums 
(some  with  a  jaunty  air,  others  on  the  contrary 
in  a  very  modest  pose),  drank  and  joked  with- 
out troubling  about  death,  which  might  over- 
take them  at  any  moment  as  it  had  overtaken 
Sleptsov.  And,  as  if  to  confirm  their  expecta- 
tions, in  the  midst  of  their  talk,  they  heard  to 
the  left  of  the  road  the  pleasing  stirring  sound 
of  a  rifle-shot;  and  a  bullet,  merrily  whistling 
somewhere  in  the  misty  air,  flew  past  and 
crashed  into  a  tree. 

"Hullo!"  exclaimed  Poltoratsky  in  a  merry 
voice;  "why,  that's  at  our  line.  .  .  .  There 
now,  Kostya,"  and  he  turned  to  Freze,  "now's 
your  chance.  Go  back  to  the  company.  I  will 
lead  the  whole  company  to  support  the  cordon, 
and  we'll  arrange  a  battle  that  will  be  simply 
delightful  .  .  .  and  then  we'll  make  a  re- 
port." 


HADJI   MURAD  71 

Freze  jumped  to  his  feet  and  went  at  a  quick 
pace  towards  the  smoke-enveloped  spot  where 
he  had  left  his  company. 

Poltoratsky's  little  Kabarda  dapple-bay  was 
brought  to  him,  and  he  mounted  and  drew  up 
his  company,  and  led  it  in  the  direction  whence 
the  shots  were  fired.  The  outposts  stood  on  the 
skirts  of  the  forest,  in  front  of  the  bare  de- 
scending slope  of  a  ravine.  The  wind  was 
blowing  in  the  direction  of  the  forest,  and  not 
only  was  it  possible  to  see  the  slope  of  the 
ravine,  but  the  opposite  side  of  it  was  also  dis- 
tinctly visible.  When  Poltor^tsky  rode  up  to 
the  line,  the  sun  came  out  from  behind  the  mist; 
and  on  the  other  side  of  the  ravine,  by  the  out- 
skirts of  a  young  forest,  at  the  distance  of  a 
quarter  of  a  mile,  a  few  horsemen  became  vis- 
ible. They  were  the  Chechens  who  had  pur- 
sued Hadji  Murad  and  wanted  to  see  him  meet 
the  Russians.  One  of  them  fired  at  the  line. 
Several  soldiers  fired  back.  The  Chechens  re- 
treated, and  the  firing  ceased. 

But  when  Poltoratsky  and  his  company  came 
up,  he  nevertheless  gave  orders  to  fire;  and 
scarcely  had  the  word  been  passed,  when  along 


72  HADJI   MURAD 

the  whole  line  of  sharpshooters  started  the  in- 
cessant, merry,  stirring  rattle  of  our  rifles,  ac- 
companied by  pretty  dissolving  cloudlets  of 
smoke.  The  soldiers,  pleased  to  have  some  dis- 
traction, hastened  to  load,  and  fired  shot  after 
shot.  The  Chechens  evidently  caught  the  feel- 
ing of  excitement,  and  leaping  forward  one 
after  another,  fired  a  few  shots  at  our  men. 
One  of  these  shots  wounded  a  soldier.  It  was 
that  same  Avdeev  who  had  lain  in  ambush  the 
night  before. 

When  his  comrades  approached  him  he  was 
lying  prone,  holding  his  wounded  stomach  with 
both  hands,  and  rocking  himself  with  a  rhyth- 
mic motion,  moaned  softly.  He  belonged  to 
Poltor^tsky's  company,  and  Poltoratsky,  see- 
ing a  group  of  soldiers  collected,  rode  up  to 
them. 

"What  is  it,  lad?  Been  hit?"  said  Poltor- 
atsky.    ''Where?" 

Avdeev  did  not  answer. 

''I  was  just  going  to  load,  your  honour,  when 
I  heard  a  click,"  said  a  soldier  who  had  been 
with  Avdeev;  "and  I  look,  and  see  he's  dropped 
his  gun." 


HADJI   MUR  AD  73 

''Tut,  tut,  tut!"  PoltorMsky  clicked  his 
tongue.    ''Does  it  hurt  much,  Avdeev?" 

"It  doesn't  hurt,  but  it  stops  me  walking.  A 
drop  of  vodka  now,  your  honour!" 

Some  vodka  (or  rather  the  spirits  drunk  by 
the  soldiers  in  the  Caucasus)  was  found,  and 
Panov,  severely  frowning,  brought  Avdeev  a 
can-lid  full.  Avdeev  tried  to  drink  it,  but  im- 
mediately handed  back  the  lid. 

"My  soul  turns  against  it,"  he  said.  "Drink 
it  yourself." 

Panov  drank  up  the  spirit. 

Avdeev  raised  himself,  but  sank  back  at 
once.  They  spread  out  a  cloak  and  laid  him 
on  it. 

"Your  honour,  the  colonel  is  coming,"  said 
the  sergeant-major  to  Poltoratsky. 

"All  right.  Then  will  you  see  to  him?"  said 
Poltoratsky:  and,  flourishing  his  whip,  he  rode 
at  a  fast  trot  to  meet  Vorontsov. 

Vorontsov  was  riding  his  thoroughbred  Eng- 
lish chestnut  gelding,  and  was  accompanied  by 
the  adjutant,  a  Cossack,  and  a  Chechen  inter- 
preter. 

"What's  happening  here?"  asked  Vorontsov. 


74  HADJI   MURAD 


<(' 


'Why,  a  skirmishing  party  attacked  our  ad- 
vanced line,"  Poltoratsky  answered. 

"Come,  come;  you've  arranged  the  whole 
thing  yourself!" 

*'0h  no.  Prince,  not  I,"  said  Poltoratsky  with 
a  smile;  ''they  pushed  forward  of  their  own 
accord." 

''I  hear  a  soldier  has  been  wounded?" 

''Yes,  it's  a  great  pity.  He's  a  good  sol- 
dier. ' ' 

"Seriously?" 

"Seriously,  I  believe  ...  in  the  stom- 
ach." 

"And  do  you  know  where  I  am  going?"  Vor- 
ontsov  asked. 

"I  don't." 

"Can't  you  guess!" 

"No." 

"Hadji  Murad  has  surrendered,  and  we  are 
now  going  to  meet  him. ' ' 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  so?" 

"His  envoy  came  to  me  yesterday,"  said 
Vorontsov,  with  difficulty  repressing  a  smile  of 
joy.  "He  will  be  waiting  for  me  at  the  Shalin 
glade  in  a  few  minutes.     Place  sharpshooters 


HADJI   MURAD  75 

as  far  as  the  glade,  and  then  come  and  join  me." 
"J  understand,"  said  Poltoratsky,  lifting  his 
hand  to  his  cap,  and  rode  back  to  his  company. 
He  led  the  sharpshooters  to  the  right  himself, 
and  ordered  the  sergeant-major  to  do  the  same 
on  the  left  side. 

The  wounded  Avdeev  had  meanwhile  been 
taken  back  to  the  fort  by  some  of  the  soldiers. 
On  his  way  back  to  rejoin  Vorontsov,  Poltor- 
atsky noticed  behind  him  several  horsemen  who 
were  overtaking  him.  In  front,  on  a  white- 
maned  horse,  rode  a  man  of  imposing  appear- 
ance. He  wore  a  turban,  and  carried  weapons 
with  gold  ornaments.  This  man  was  Hadji 
Murad.  He  approached  Poltoratsky  and  said 
something  to  him  in  Tartar.  Raising  his  eye- 
brows, Poltoratsky  made  a  gesture  with  his 
arms  to  show  that  he  did  not  understand,  and 
smiled.  Hadji  Murad  gave  him  smile  for  smile, 
and  that  smile  struck  Poltoriitsky  by  its  child- 
like kindliness.  Poltoratsky  had  never  ex- 
pected to  see  the  terrible  mountain  chief  look 
like  that.  He  expected  to  see  a  morose,  hard- 
featured  man ;  and  here  was  a  vivacious  person, 
whose  smile  was  so  kindly  that  Poltoriltsky  felt 


76  HADJI   MUEAD 

as  if  he  were  an  old  acquaintance.  He  had  but 
one  peculiarity:  his  eyes,  set  wide  apart,  gazed 
from  under  their  black  brows  attentively,  pene- 
tratingly and  calmly  into  the  eyes  of  others. 

Hadji  Murad's  suite  consisted  of  five  men. 
Among  them  was  Khan  Mahoma,  who  had  been 
to  see  Prince  Vorontsov  that  night.  He  was  a 
rosy,  round-faced  fellow,  with  black  lashless 
eyes  and  a  beaming  expression,  full  of  the  joy 
of  life.  Then  there  was  the  Avar  Khanefi,  a 
thick-set,  hairy  man,  whose  eyebrows  were 
joined.  He  was  in  charge  of  all  Hadji  Murad's 
property,  and  led  a  stud-bred  horse  which  car- 
ried tightl^'-jiacked  saddle-bags.  Two  men  of 
the  suite  were  particularly  striking.  The  first 
was  a  Lesghian :  a  youth,  broad-shouldered,  but 
with  a  waist  as  slim  as  a  woman's,  a  brown 
beard  just  appearing  on  his  face,  and  beautiful 
ram-like  eyes.  This  was  Eldar.  The  other, 
GamzAlo,  was  a  Chechen,  blind  in  one  eye, 
without  eyebrows  or  eyelashes,  with  a  short  red 
beard,  and  a  scar  across  his  nose  and  face. 
Poltoratsky  pointed  out  to  Hadji  Murdd,  Vor- 
ontsov, who  had  just  appeared  on  the  road. 
Hadji  Murdd  rode  to  meet  him,  and,  putting 


HADJI   MUEAD  77 

his  right  hand  on  his  heart,  said  something  in 
Tartar,  and  stopped.  The  Chechen  interpreter 
translated. 

''He  says,  'I  surrender  myself  to  the  will  of 
the  Russian  Tsar.  I  wish  to  serve  him,'  he 
says.  'I  wished  to  do  so  long  ago,  but  Shamil 
would  not  let  me.'  " 

Having  heard  what  the  interpreter  said,  Vor- 
ontsov  stretched  out  his  hand  in  its  wash- 
leather  glove  to  Hadji  Murad.  Hadji  Murad 
looked  at  it  hesitatingly  for  a  moment,  and  then 
pressed  it  firmly,  again  saying  something,  and 
looking  first  at  the  interpreter  and  then  at  Vor- 
ontsov. 

''He  says  he  did  not  wish  to  surrender  to 
any  one  but  you,  as  you  are  the  son  of  the  Sir- 
dar, and  he  respects  you  much." 

Vorontsov  nodded  to  express  his  thanks. 
Hadji  Murad  again  said  something,  pointing  to 
his  suite. 

"He  says  that  these  men,  his  henchmen,  will 
serve  the  Russians  as  well  as  he." 

Vorontsov  turned  towards  them,  and  nodded 
to  them  too.  The  merry,  black-eyed,  lashless 
Chechen,  Khan  Malioma,  also  nodded,  and  said 


78  HADJI    MURAD 

something  which  was  probably  amusing,  for 
the  hairy  Avar  drew  his  lips  into  a  smile,  show- 
ing his  ivory-white  teeth.  But  the  red-haired 
Gamzalo's  one  red  eye  just  glanced  at  Voront- 
sov  and  then  was  again  fixed  on  the  ears  of  his 
horse. 

When  Vorontsov  and  Hadji  Murad  with  their 
retinues  rode  back  to  the  fort,  the  soldiers,  re- 
leased from  the  lines,  gathered  in  groups  and 
made  their  own  comments. 

''What  a  number  of  souls  the  damned  fellow 
has  destroyed !  And  now  see  what  a  fuss  they 
will  make  of  him!" 

''Naturally.  He  was  Shamil's  right  hand, 
and  now — no  fear!" 

"Still  there's  no  denying  it!  he's  a  fine  fel- 
low— a  regular  dzhigitr'  ^ 

"And  the  red  one!  The  red  one  squints  at 
you  like  a  beast!" 

"Ugh!     He  must  be  a  hound!" 

They  had  all  specially  noticed  the  red  one. 
Where  the  wood-felling  was  going  on,  the  sol- 
diers nearest  to  the  road  ran  out  to  look.    Their 

1  Among  the  Chechens,  a  dshir/it  is  the  same  as  a  brave 
among  the  Indians,  but  the  word  is  inseparably  connected 
with  the  idea  of  sliilful  horsemanship. 


HADJI   MURAD  79 

officer  shouted  to  them,  but  Vorontsov  stopped 
him. 

''Let  them  have  a  look  at  their  old  friend." 
''You  know  who  that  is?"  asked  Vorontsov, 
turning  to  the  nearest   soldier,   and  speaking 
the  words  slowly  with  his  English  accent. 
"No,  your  Excellency." 
"Hadji  Murad.     .     .     .     Heard  of  him?" 
"How  could  we  help   it,  your  Excellency? 
We've  beaten  him  many  a  time!" 

"Yes,  and  we've  had  it  hot  from  him,  too." 
"Yes,   that's    right,   your   Excellency,"    an- 
swered the  soldier,  pleased  to  be  talking  with 
his  chief. 

Hadji  Murad  understood  that  they  were 
speaking  about  him,  and  smiled  brightly  with 
his  eyes. 

Vorontsov,  in  the  most  cheerful  mood,  re- 
turned to  the  fort. 


VI 

Young  Vorontsov  was  much  pleased  that  it  was 
he,  and  not  any  one  else,  who  had  succeeded  in 
winning  over  and  receiving  Hadji  Murad — next 
to  ShamiyRussia 's  chief  and  most  active  enemy. 
There  was  just  one  unpleasant  thing  about  it: 
General  Meller-Zakomelsky  was  in  command  of 
the  army  in  Vozdvizhensk,  and  the  whole  affair 
ought  to  have  been  carried  out  through  him; 
and  as  Vorontsov  had  done  everything  himself 
without  reporting  it,  there  might  be  some  un- 
pleasantness; and  this  thought  somewhat  in- 
terfered with  his  satisfaction.  On  reaching  his 
house  he  entrusted  Hadji  Murad 's  henchmen 
to  the  regimental  adjutant,  and  himself  showed 
Hadji  Murad  into  the  house. 

Princess  Mary  Vasilevna,  elegantly  dressed 
and  smiling,  and  her  little  son,  a  handsome 
curly-headed,  six-year-old  boy,  met  Hadji 
Murad  in  the  drawing-room.    The  latter  placed 

his  hands  on  his  heart,  and  through  the  inter- 
so 


HADJI   MURAD  81 

preter — who  had  entered  with  him — said  with 
solemnity  that  he  regarded  himself  as  the 
Prince's  kunak,  since  the  Prince  had  brought 
him  into  his  own  house;  and  that  a  kundk's 
whole  family  was  as  sacred  as  the  kundk  him- 
self. 

Hadji  Murad's  appearance  and  manners 
pleased  Mary  Vasilevna;  and  the  fact  that  he 
flushed  when  she  held  out  her  large  white  hand 
to  him,  inclined  her  still  more  in  his  favour. 
She  invited  him  to  sit  down ;  and  having  asked 
him  whether  he  drank  coffee,  had  some  served 
up.  He,  however,  declined  it  when  it  came.  He 
understood  a  little  Russian,  but  could  not  speak 
it.  When  something  was  said  which  he  could 
not  understand  he  smiled,  and  his  smile  pleased 
Mary  Vasilevna,  just  as  it  had  pleased  Pol- 
toratsky.  The  curly-headed,  keen-eyed  little 
boy  (whom  his  mother  called  Bulka)  standing 
beside  her  did  not  take  his  eyes  off  Hadji 
Murad,  whom  he  had  always  heard  spoken  of  as 
a  great  warrior. 

Leaving  Hadji  Murad  with  his  wife,  Voron- 
tsov  went  to  his  office  to  do  what  was  necessary 
about  reporting  the  fact  of  Hadji  Murad's  hav- 


82  HADJI    MURAD 

ing  come  over  to  the  Russians.  When  he  had 
written  a  report  to  the  general  in  command  of 
the  left  flank — General  Kozlovsky — at  Grozny, 
and  a  letter  to  his  father,  Vorontsov  hnrried 
home,  afraid  that  his  wife  might  be  vexed  with 
him  for  forcing  on  her  this  terrible  stranger, 
who  had  to  be  treated  in  such  a  way  that  he 
should  not  take  offence,  and  yet  not  too  kindly. 
But  his  fears  were  needless.  Hadji  Munid  was 
sitting  in  an  armchair  with  little  Bulka,  Voron- 
tsov's  stepson,  on  his  knee;  and  with  bent  head 
was  listening  attentively  to  the  interpreter,  who 
was  translating  to  him  the  words  of  the  laugh- 
ing Mary  Vasilevna.  Mary  Vasilevna  was  tell- 
ing him  that  if  every  time  a  kiindk  admired 
anything  of  his  he  made  him  a  present  of  it,  he 
would  soon  have  to  about  like  Adam     .     .     . 

When  the  Prince  entered,  Hadji  Murad  rose 
at  once,  and  surprising  and  otfending  Bulka  by 
putting  him  off  his  knee,  changed  the  playful 
expression  of  his  face  to  a  stern  and  serious 
one;  and  he  only  sat  down  again  when  Voron- 
tsov had  himself  taken  a  seat. 

Continuing  the  conversation,  he  answered 
Mary  Vasilevna  by  telling  her  that  it  was  a  law 


HADJI   MUR  AD  83 

among  his  people  that  anything  your  kiimik 
admired  must  be  presented  to  him. 

"Thy  son,  lundk!"  he  said  in  Russian,  pat- 
ting the  curly  head  of  the  boy,  who  had  again 
climbed  on  his  knee. 

"He  is  delightful,  your  brigand!"  said  Mary 
Vasilevna,  to  her  husband  in  French.  "Bulka 
has  ])een  admiring  his  dagger,  and  he  has  given 
it  to  him." 

Bulka  showed  the  dagger  to  his  father. 
*'C'est  mi  ohjet  de  prix!"  '  added  she. 

"II  faudni  trouver  V occasion  de  lui  faire  ca- 
dean,"'-^  said  Vorontsov. 

Hadji  Murad,  his  eyes  turned  down,  sat  strok- 
ing the  boy's  curly  head  and  saying:  "Dzhigit, 
dzhigit!" 

"A  beautiful,  beautiful  dagger,"  said  Voron- 
tsov, half  drawing  out  the  sharpened  blade, 
which  had  a  ridge  down  the  centre.  "I  thank 
thee!" 

"Ask  him  what  I  can  do  for  him,"  he  said  to 
the  interpreter. 

The  interpreter  translated,  and  Hadji  Murad 

1  "It  is  a  tliiiij:  of  value." 

2  "We  must  find  an  oi)itortunity  to  ujake  him  a  present." 


84  HADJI   MURAD 

at  once  replied  that  he  wanted  nothing,  but  that 
he  begged  to  be  taken  to  a  place  where  he  could 
say  his  prayers. 

Vorontsov  called  his  valet,  and  told  him  to  do 
what  Hadji  Murad  desired. 

As  soon  as  Hadji  Murad  was  alone  in  the 
room  allotted  to  him  his  face  altered.  The 
pleased  expression,  now  kindly  and  now  stately, 
vanished,  and  a  look  of  anxiety  showed  itself. 
Vorontsov  had  received  him  far  better  than 
Hadji  Murad  had  expected.  But  the  better 
the  reception  the  less  did  Hadji  Murad  trust 
Vorontsov  and  his  officers.  He  feared  every- 
thing :  that  he  might  be  seized,  chained,  and  sent 
to  Siberia,  or  simply  killed;  and  therefore  he 
was  on  his  guard.  He  asked  Eldar,  when  the 
latter  entered  his  room,  where  his  murids  had 
been  put,  and  whether  their  arms  had  been 
taken  from  them,  and  where  the  horses  were. 
Eldar  reported  that  the  horses  were  in  the 
Prince's  stables;  that  the  men  had  been  placed 
in  a  barn ;  that  they  retained  their  arms,  and 
that  the  interpreter  was  giving  them  food  and 
tea. 

Hadji  Murad  shook  his  head  in  doubt;  and 


HADJI   MURAD  85 

after  undressing  he  said  his  prayers,  and  told 
Eldar  to  bring  him  his  silver  dagger.  He  then 
dressed,  and,  having  fastened  his  belt,  sat  down 
with  his  legs  on  the  divan  to  await  what  might 
befall  him. 

At  four  in  the  afternoon  the  interpreter  came 
to  call  him  to  dine  with  the  Prince. 

At  dinner  he  hardly  ate  anything,  except  some 

pilau, ^  to  which  he  helped  himself  from  the 
very  part  of  the  dish  from  which  Mary  Vasi- 

levna  had  helped  herself. 

''He  is  afraid  we  shall  poison  him,"  Mary 
Vasilevna  remarked  to  her  husband.  ''He  has 
helped  himself  from  the  place  where  I  took  my 
helping."  Then,  instantly  turning  to  Hadji 
Murad,  she  asked  him  through  the  interpreter 
when  he  would  pray  again.  Hadji  Murad  lifted 
five  fingers  and  pointed  to  the  sun.  "Then  it 
will  soon  be  time,"  and  Vorontsov  drew  out  his 
watch  and  pressed  a  spring.  The  watch  struck 
four  and  one  quarter.  This  evidently  sur- 
prised Hadji  MurAd,  and  he  asked  to  hear  it 
again,  and  to  be  allowed  to  look  at  the  watch. 

3  An    Oriental   disb,   prepared   with    rice   and   mutton,   or 
chicken. 


86  H  A  D  J  I    M  U  R  A  D 

''Voild  Voccasion!  Donnez  lui  la  montre,"* 
said  the  Princess  to  her  husband, 

Vorontsov  at  once  offered  the  watch  to  Hadji 
Miirad. 

The  latter  placed  his  hand  on  liis  hreast  and 
took  the  watch.  Several  times  he  touched  the 
spring,  listened,  and  nodded  his  head  approv- 
ingly. 

After  dinner,  Meller-Zakomelsky's  aide-de- 
camp was  announced. 

The  aide-de-camp  informed  the  Prince  that 
the  Genera],  having  heard  of  Hadji  Murad's 
arrival,  was  highly  displeased  that  this  had  not 
been  reported  to  him,  and  required  Hadji 
Murad  to  be  brought  to  him  without  delay. 
Vorontsov  replied  that  the  General's  command 
should  be  obeyed ;  and  through  the  interpreter 
he  informed  Hadji  Murad  of  these  orders,  and 
asked  him  to  go  to  Meller  with  him. 

When  Mary  Vasilevna  heard  what  the  aide- 
de-camp  had  come  about,  she  at  once  understood 
that  unpleasantness  might  arise  between  her 
husband  and  the  General,  and  decided,  in  spite 
of  all  her  husband's  attempts  to  dissuade  her, 
to  go  with  him  and  Hadji  Murad, 

4  "This  is  the  opportunity !     Give  him  the  watch." 


HADJI    MURAD  87 

''Vous  feriez  Men  mieux  de  rester — c'est  mon 
affaire,  non  pas  la  voire     .     .     ."^ 

'^Vons  ne  pouvez  pas  m'emp'eeher  d' alter 
voir  madame  la  generale!" 

''You  could  go  some  other  time." 

"But  I  wish  to  go  now!" 

There  was  no  help  for  it,  so  Vorontsov 
agreed;  and  they  all  three  went. 

When  they  entered,  Meller  with  sombre 
politeness  conducted  Mary  Vasilevna  to  his 
wife,  and  told  his  aide-de-camp  to  show  Hadji 
Murad  into  the  waiting-room,  and  not  to  let  him 
out  till  further  orders. 

"Please  .  .  ."  he  said  to  Vorontsov,  open- 
ing the  door  of  his  study  and  letting  the  Prince 
enter  before  him. 

Having  entered  the  study,  he  stopped  in 
front  of  the  Prince  and  said,  without  offering 
him  a  seat, — 

"I  am  in  command  here,  and  therefore  all 
negotiations  with  the  enemy  must  be  carried  on 
through  me!  Why  did  you  not  report  to  me 
the  fact  of  Hadji  Murad 's  having  come  over?" 

"An  emissary  came  to  me  and  announced 

c  "You  would  do  much  better  to  reinaiii  nt  lioine     .     .     . 
this  is  my  business,  and  not  yours." 

«  "You  cannot  prevent  my  goin^  ♦^o  <5ee  the  general's  wife!" 


88  HADJI   MURAD 

Hadji  Murad's  wish  to  capitulate  only  to  me," 
replied  Vorontsov,  growing  pale  with  excite- 
ment, expecting  some  rude  expression  from  the 
angry  general,  and  at  the  same  time  becoming 
infected  with  his  anger. 

*'I  ask  you  why  I  was  not  informed?" 

*'I  intended  to  do  so,  Baron,  but     .     .     ." 

''You  are  not  to  address  me  as  'Baron,'  but 
as  'Your  Excellency'!"  And  here  the  Baron's 
pent-up  irritation  suddenly  broke  out,  and  he 
uttered  all  that  had  long  been  boiling  in  his  soul. 

"I  have  not  served  my  sovereign  twenty- 
seven  years  in  order  that  men  who  began  their 
service  yesterday,  relying  on  family  connec- 
tions, should  give  orders  under  my  very  nose 
about  matters  that  do  not  concern  them!" 

"Your  Excellency,  I  request  you  will  not  say 
things  that  are  incorrect!"  interrupted  Voron- 
tsov. 

"I  am  saying  what  is  correct,  and  I  won't 
allow  .  .  ."  said  the  General,  still  more 
irritably. 

But  at  that  moment  Mary  Vasilevna  entered, 
rustling  with  her  skirts,  and  followed  by  a  little 
modest-looking  lady,  Meller-Zakomelsky's  wife. 


HADJI   MUR  AD  89 

''Come,  come,  Baron !  Simon  did  not  wish  to 
displease  you,"  began  Mary  Vasilevna. 

"I     am    not    speaking     about    that,  Prin- 

C-vioo        •        •        • 

''Well,  you  know,  let's  leave  all  that!  .  .  . 
You  know,  'A  bad  peace  is  better  than  a  good 
quarrel!'  .  .  .  Oli  dear,  what  am  I  say- 
ing?" and  she  laughed. 

The  angry  General  capitulated  to  the  enchant- 
ing laugh  of  the  beauty.  A  smile  hovered  un- 
der his  moustache. 

"I  confess  I  was  wrong,"  said  Vorontsov, 
"but—" 

"Well,  and  I  too  got  rather  carried  away," 
said  Meller,  and  held  out  his  hand  to  the  Prince. 

Peace  was  re-established,  and  it  was  decided 
to  leave  Hadji  Murad  for  the  present  at  Mel- 
ler's,  and  then  to  send  him  to  the  commander  of 
the  left  flank. 

Hadji  Murad  sat  in  the  next  room,  and  though 
he  did  not  understand  what  was  said,  he  under- 
stood what  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  under- 
stand— namely,  that  they  were  quarrelling 
about  him,  and  that  his  desertion  of  Shamil  was 
a  matter  of  immense  importance  to  the  Pus- 


90  HADJI   MURAD 

sians,  and  that  therefore  not  only  would  they  not 
exile  him  or  kill  him,  but  that  .he  would  be  able 
to  demand  much  from  them.  He  also  under- 
stood that  though  Meller-Zakomelsky  was  the 
commanding-officer,  he  had  not  as  much  influ- 
ence as  his  subordinate  Vorontsov;  and  that 
Vorontsov  was  important  and  Meller-Zakomel- 
sky unimportant;  and  therefore,  when  Meller- 
Zakomelsky  sent  for  him  and  began  to  question 
him,  Hadji  Murtid  bore  himself  proudly  and 
ceremoniously,  saying  that  he  had  come  from 
the  mountains  to  serve  the  White  Tsar,  and 
would  give  account  only  to  his  Sirdar,  meaning 
the  commander-in-chief.  Prince  Vorontsov,  in 
Tiflis. 


VII 

The  wounded  Avdeev  was  taken  to  the  hos- 
pital— a  small  wooden  ))inlding  roofed  with 
boards,  at  the  entrance  of  the  fort — and  was 
placed  on  one  of  the  empty  beds  in  the  common 
ward.  There  were  four  patients  in  the  ward: 
one,  ill  with  typhus  and  in  high  fever,  another, 
pale,  with  dark  shadows  under  his  eyes,  who 
had  ague  and  was  just  expecting  another  attack, 
and  yawned  continually;  and  two  more  who  had 
been  wounded  in  a  raid  three  weeks  before :  one 
in  the  hand — he  was  up — and  the  other  in  the 
shoulder;  the  latter  was  sitting  on  a  bed.  All 
of  them,  except  the  typhus  patient,  surrounded 
and  questioned  the  newcomer,  and  those  who 
had  brought  him. 

''Sometimes  they  fire  as  if  it  were  peas  they 
were  spilling  over  you,  and  nothing  happens 
.  .  .  and  this  time  only  about  five  shots  were 
fired,"  related  one  of  the  bearers. 

''Each  gets  what  fate  sends!" 

"Oh!"    groaned   Avdeev   loudly,   trying    to 

91 


92  HADJIMURAD 

master  his  pain  when  they  began  to  place  him 
on  the  bed;  but  he  stopped  groaning  when  he 
was  on  it,  and  only  frowned  and  moved  his  feet 
continually.  He  held  his  hands  over  his  wound 
and  looked  fixedly  before  him. 

The  doctor  came,  and  gave  orders  to  turn  the 
wounded  man  over,  to  see  whether  the  bullet 
had  passed  out  behind. 

^'What's  this?"  the  doctor  asked,  pointing  to 
the  large  white  scars  that  crossed  one  another 
on  the  patient's  back  and  loins. 

"That  was  done  long  ago,  your  honour!"  re- 
plied Avdeev,  with  a  groan. 

They  were  the  scars  left  by  the  flogging 
Avdeev  had  received  for  the  money  he  drank. 

Avdeev  was  again  turned  over,  and  the  doc- 
tor long  probed  in  his  stomach,  and  found  the 
bullet,  but  failed  to  extract  it.  He  put  a  dress- 
ing on  the  wound,  and  having  stuck  plaster  over 
it  went  away.  During  the  whole  time  the  doc- 
tor was  probing  and  bandaging  the  wound 
Avdeev  lav  with  clenched  teeth  and  closed  eves, 
but  when  the  doctor  had  gone  he  opened  them 
and  looked  around  as  though  amazed.     His  eyes 


HADJI   MUR AD  93 

were  turned  to  the  other  patients  and  to  the  sur- 
geon's  orderly,  but  he  seemed  to  see  not  them, 
but  something  else  that  surprised  him. 

His  friends,  Panov  and  Serogin,  came  in;  but 
Avdeev  continued  to  lie  in  the  same  position, 
looking  before  him  with  surprise.  It  was  long 
before  he  recognised  his  comrades,  though  his 
eyes  gazed  straight  at  them. 

''I  say,  Peter,  have  you  no  message  to  send 
home?"  said  Panov. 

Avdeev  did  not  answer,  though  he  was  look- 
ing Panov  in  the  face. 

''I  say,  haven't  you  any  orders  to  send 
home?"  again  repeated  Panov,  touching 
Avdeev 's  cold  large-boned  hand. 

Avdeev  seemed  to  come  to. 

''Ah!     .     .    .     Panov!" 

**Yes,  here.  .  .  .  I've  come!  Have  you 
nothing  for  home  ?  Serogin  would  write  a  let- 
ter." 

''Serogin  .  .  ."  said  Avdeev,  moving  his 
eyes  with  difficulty  towards  Serogin,  "will  you 
write?  .  .  .  Well  then,  write  so:  'Your 
son,'  say,  'Peter,  has  given  orders  that  you 


94  HADJI   MUR  AD 

should  live  loiig,^  He  envied  bis  brother' 
.  .  .  1  told  you  about  that  to-day  .  .  . 
'and  now  he  is  himself  glad.  Don't  worry  him. 
.  .  .  Let  him  live.  God  grant  it  him.  I  am 
glad!'    Write  that." 

Having  said  this  he  was  long  silent,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  Pan 6 v. 

''And  did  you  find  your  pipe?"  he  suddenly 
asked.     Panov  did  not  reply. 

"Your    pipe     .     .    .    your    pipe!    I    mean, 
have  you  found  it?"    Avdeev  repeated. 
It  was  in  my  bag." 

That's  right!  .  .  .  Well,  and  now  give 
me  a  candle.  ...  I  am  going  to  die,"  said 
Avdeev. 

Just  then  Poltoratsky  came  in  to  inquire  after 
his  soldier. 

"How  goes  it,  my  lad!    Badly?"  said  he. 

Avdeev  closed  his  eyes  and  shook  his  head 
negatively.  His  broad-cheeked  face  was  pale 
and  stern.  He  did  not  reply,  but  again  said  to 
Panov, — 

1  A  popular  expression,   meaning  that  the  sender  of  the 
message  is  already  dead. 


i  i 


i  1 1 


HADJI   MURAD  95 


( ( 


Bring  a  candle.  ...  I  am  going  to 
die." 

A  wax  taper  was  placed  in  his  hand,  but  liis 
fingers  would  not  bend,  so  it  was  placed  between 
them,  and  was  held  up  for  him. 

Poltoratsky  went  away,  and  five  minutes  later 
the  orderly  put  his  ear  to  Avdeev's  heart  and 
said  that  all  was  over. 

Avdeev's  death  was  described  in  the  following 
manner  in  the  report  sent  to  Tiflis, — 

^^22rd  Nov. — Two  companies  of  the  Kurin 
regiment  advanced  from  the  fort  on  a  wood- 
felling  expedition.  At  midday  a  considerable 
number  of  mountaineer,'-,  suddenly  attacked  the 
wood-fellers.  The  sharpshooters  began  to  re- 
treat, but  the  2nd  Company  charged  with  the 
bayonet  and  overthrew  the  mountaineers.  In 
this  affair  two  privates  were  slightly  wounded 
and  one  killed.  The  mountaineers  lost  about  a 
hundred  men  killed  and  wounded. 


VIII 

On  the  clay  Peter  Avdeev  died  in  the  hospital 
at  Vozdvizhensk,  his  old  father,  the  wife  of  the 
brother  in  whose  place  he  had  enlisted,  and 
that  brother's  daughter — who  was  already  ap- 
proaching womanhood  and  almost  of  age  to  get 
married — were  threshing  oats  on  the  hard- 
frozen  threshing  floor. 

The  day  before,  there  had  been  a  heavy  fall 
of  snow  followed  towards  morning  by  a  severe 
frost.  The  old  man  woke  when  the  cocks  were 
crowing  for  the  third  time,  and  seeing  the  bright 
moonlight  through  the  frozen  window-panes, 
got  down  from  the  oven-top,  put  on  his  boots, 
his  sheepskin  coat  and  cap,  and  went  out  to  the 
threshing-floor.  Having  worked  there  for  a 
couple  of  hours,  he  returned  to  the  hut  and 
awoke  his  son  and  the  women.  When  the 
younger  woman  and  the  girl  came  to  the  thresh- 
ing-floor they  found  it  ready  swept,  a  wooden 
shovel  sticking  in  the  dry  white  snow,  and  be- 
side it  birch  brooms  with  the  twigs  upwards, 

96 


HADJI   MUR AD  97 

and  two  rows  of  oat-sheaves  laid  ears  to  ears 
in  a  long  line  the  whole  length  of  the  clean 
threshing-floor.  They  choose  their  flails  and 
started  threshing,  keeping  time  with  their  tri])le 
blows.  The  old  man  struck  powerfully  with  his 
heavy  flail,  breaking  the  straw;  the  girl  struck 
the  ears  from  above  with  measured  blows ;  and 
his  daughter-in-law  turned  the  oats  over  with 
her  flail. 

The  moon  had  set,  dawn  was  breaking,  and 
they  were  finishing  the  line  of  sheaves  when 
Akim,  the  eldest  son,  in  his  sheejjskin  and  cap, 
joined  the  threshers. 

"What  are  you  lazing  about  for?"  shouted  his 
father  to  him,  pausing  in  his  work  and  leaning 
on  his  flail. 

"The  horses  had  to  be  seen  to." 

"'Horses  seen  to!'"  the  father  repeated, 
mimicking  him.  "The  old  woman  will  look 
after  them.  .  .  .  Take  your  flail!  You're 
getting  too  fat,  you  drunkard!" 

"Have  you  been  standing  me  treat?"  mut- 
tered the  son. 

"What?"  said  the  old  man,  frowning  sternly 
and  missing  a  stroke. 


98  HADJI   MURAD 

The  son  silently  took  a  flail,  and  tliey  began 
threshing  with  four  flails. 

''Trak,  tapatam  .  .  .  trak,  tapatam 
.  .  .  trak  .  .  ."  came  down  the  old  man's 
heavy  flail  after  the  three  others. 

*' Why,  you've  got  a  nape  like  a  goodly  gentle- 
man !  .  .  .  Look  here,  my  trousers  have 
hardly  anything  to  hang  on !"  said  the  old  man, 
omitting  his  stroke  and  only  swinging  his  flail 
in  the  air,  so  as  not  to  get  out  of  time. 

They  had  finished  the  row,  and  the  women 
began  removing  the  straw  with  rakes. 

"Peter  was  a  fool  to  go  in  your  stead. 
They'd  have  knocked  the  nonsense  out  of  you  in 
the  army ;  and  he  was  worth  five  of  such  as  you 
at  home!" 

"That's  enough,  father,"  said  the  daughter- 
in-law,  as  she  threw  aside  the  binders  that  had 
come  off  the  sheaves. 

"Yes,  feed  the  six  of  you,  and  get  no  work  out 
of  a  single  one !  Peter  used  to  work  for  two. 
He  was  not  like     .     .     ." 

Along  the  trodden  path  from  the  house  came 
the  old  man's  wife,  the  frozen  snow  creaking 
under  the  new  bark  shoes  she  wore  over  her 


HADJI   MURAD  99 

tigiitly-wound  woollen  leg-bands.  The  men  were 
shovelling  the  iinwinnowed  grain  into  heaps,  the 
woman  and  the  girl  sweeping  up  what  remained. 

"The  Elder  has  been,  and  orders  everybody 
to  go  and  work  for  the  master,  carting  bricks," 
said  the  old  woman.  "I've  got  breakfast 
ready.     .     .     .     Come  along,  won't  you?" 

"All  right.  .  .  .  Harness  the  roan  and 
go,"  said  the  old  man  to  Akim,  "and  you'd  bet- 
ter look  out  that  you  don't  get  me  into  trouble, 
as  you  did  the  other  day!  .  .  .  One  can't 
help  regretting  Peter!" 

"When  he  was  at  home  you  used  to  scold 
him,"  retorted  Akim.  "Now  he's  away  you 
keep  nagging  at  me." 

"That  shows  you  deserve  it,"  said  his  mother 
in  the  same  angry  tones.  "You'll  never  be 
Peter's  equal." 

"Well,  all  right,"  said  the  son. 

"'All  right,'  indeed!  You've  drunk  the 
meal,  and  now  you  say  'all  right !'  " 

"Let  bygones  be  bygones!"  said  the  daugh- 
ter-in-law. 

The  disagreements  between  father  and  son 
had   begun   long   ago — almost    from   the    time 


100  HADJIMURAD 

Peter  went  as  a  soldier.  Even  then  the  old 
man  felt  that  he  had  parted  with  an  eagle  for  a 
cnckoo.  It  is  true  that  according  to  right — as 
the  old  man  understood  it — a  childless  man  had 
to  go  in  place  of  a  family  man.  Akim  had  four 
children,  and  Peter  had  none;  but  Peter  was  a 
worker  like  his  father,  skilful,  observant, 
strong,  enduring,  and  above  all,  industrious. 
He  was  always  at  work.  If  he  happened  to 
pass  by  where  people  were  working  he  lent  a 
helping  hand,  as  his  father  would  have  done, 
and  took  a  turn  or  two  with  the  scythe,  or 
loaded  a  cart,  or  felled  a  tree,  or  chopped  some 
wood.  The  old  man  regretted  his  going  away, 
but  there  was  no  help  for  it.  Conscription  in 
those  days  was  like  death.  A  soldier  was  a 
severed  branch ;  and  to  think  about  him  at  home 
was  to  tear  one's  heart  uselessly.  Only  occa- 
sionally, to  prick  his  elder  son,  the  father  men- 
tioned him,  as  he  had  done  that  day.  But  his 
mother  often  thought  of  her  younger  son,  and 
she  had  long — for  more  than  a  year  now — been 
asking  her  husband  to  send  Peter  a  little  money, 
to  which  the  old  man  made  no  reply. 

The  Kurenkovs  were  a  well-to-do  family,  and 


HADJI   MUR  AD  101 

the  old  man  bad  some  savings  hidden  away;  but 
he  would  on  no  account  have  consented  to  toucb 
what  be  bad  laid  by.  Now,  however,  his  old 
woman,  having  heard  him  mention  their 
younger  son,  made  up  ber  mind  again  to  ask 
him  to  send  bim  at  least  a  rouble  after  selling 
the  oats.  This  she  did.  As  soon  as  the  young 
people  bad  gone  to  work  for  the  proprietor,  and 
the  old  folk  were  left  alone  together,  she  per- 
suaded bim  to  send  Peter  a  rouble  out  of  tbe 
oats-money. 

So  when  ninety-six  busbels  of  tbe  winnowed 
oats  had  been  packed  on  to  three  sledges,  lined 
with  sacking  carefully  pinned  together  at  the 
top  with  wooden  skewers,  she  gave  ber  old  man 
a  letter  written  at  her  dictation  by  tbe  cburcli 
clerk;  and  the  old  man  promised  when  he  got 
to  town  to  enclose  a  rouble,  and  to  send  it  off 
to  the  right  address. 

The  old  man,  dressed  in  a  new  sheepskin  with 
a  homespun  cloak  over  it,  bis  legs  wrapped 
round  with  warm  white  woollen  leg-bands,  took 
tbe  letter,  placed  it  in  his  wallet,  said  a  prayer, 
got  into  the  front  sledge,  and  drove  to  town. 
His  grandson  drove  in  tbe  last  sledge.     AVben 


102  HADJI    MURAD 

he  reached  the  town  the  old  man  asked  the  inn- 
keeper to  read  the  letter  to  him,  and  he  listened 
to  it  attentively  and  approvingly. 

In  her  letter  Peter's  mother  first  sent  him  her 
blessing,  then  greetings  from  everybody,  and 
the  news  of  his  godfather's  death;  and  at  the 
end  she  added  that  Aksinya  (Peter's  wife)  had 
not  wished  to  stay  with  them,  but  had  gone  into 
service,  where  they  heard  she  was  living  well 
and  honestly.  Then  came  a  reference  to  that 
present  of  a  rouble;  and  finally,  in  her  own 
words,  what  the  old  woman,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes  and  yielding  to  her  sorrow,  had  dictated 
and  the  church  clerk  had  taken  down  exactly, 
word  for  word : — 

"One  thing  more,  my  darling  child,  my  sweet 
dove,  my  own  Peterkin !  I  have  wept  my  eyes 
out  lamenting  for  thee,  thou  light  of  my  eyes. 
To  whom  hast  thou  left  me!  .  .  ."  At  this 
point  the  old  woman  had  sobbed  and  wept,  and 
said:  "That  will  do!"  So  the  words  stood  in 
the  letter ;  but  it  was  not  fated  that  Peter  should 
receive  the  news  of  his  wife's  having  left  home, 
nor  the  present  of  the  rouble,  nor  his  mother's 
last  words.     The  letter  with  the  money  in  it 


HADJI   MUR AD  103 

came  back  with  the  announcement  that  Peter 
had  been  killed  in  the  war,  defending  his  Tsar, 
his  Fatherland,  and  the  Orthodox  Faith.  That 
is  how  the  army  clerk  expressed  it. 

The  old  woman,  when  this  news  reached  her, 
wept  for  as  long  as  she  could  spare  time,  and 
then  set  to  work  again.  The  very  next  Sunday 
she  went  to  church,  and  had  a  requiem  chanted, 
and  Peter's  name  entered  among  those  for 
whose  souls  prayers  were  to  be  said;  and  she 
distributed  bits  of  holy  bread  to  all  the  good 
people,  in  memory  of  Peter  the  servant  of  God. 

Aksmya,  the  soldier's  widow,  also  lamented 
loudly  when  she  heard  of  her  beloved  husband's 
death,  with  whom  she  had  lived  but  one  short 
year.  She  regretted  her  husband,  and  her  own 
ruined  life ;  and  in  her  lamentations  mentioned 
Peter's  brown  locks  and  his  love,  and  the  sad- 
ness of  her  life  with  her  little  orphaned  Vanka ; 
and  bitterly  reproached  Peter  for  having  had 
pity  on  his  brother,  but  none  on  her — obliged  to 
wander  among  strangers ! 

But  in  the  depth  of  her  soul  Aksmya  was  glad 
of  her  husband's  death.  She  was  pregnant  by 
the  shopman  in  whose  service  she  was  living; 


104  HADJI   MUR  AD 

and  no  one  would  now  have  a  right  to  scold  her, 
and  the  shopman  could  marry  her  as,  when  he 
was  persuading  her  to  yield,  he  had  said  he 
would. 


IX 

Michael  Semenovich  Vorontsov,  being  the  son 
of  the  Russian  ambassador,  had  been  educated 
in  England,  and  possessed  a  European  educa- 
tion quite  exceptional  among  the  higher  Rus- 
sian officials  of  his  day.  He  was  ambitious, 
gentle,  and  kind  in  his  manner  with  inferiors, 
and  a  finished  courtier  with  superiors.  He  did 
not  understand  life  without  power  and  submis- 
sion. He  had  obtained  all  the  highest  ranks 
and  decorations,  and  was  looked  upon  as  a 
clever  commander,  and  even  as  the  conquerer  of 
Napoleon  at  Krasnoye. 

In  1852  he  was  over  seventy,  but  was  still 
quite  fresh,  moved  briskly,  and  above  all  was 
in  full  possession  of  a  facile  refined  and  agree- 
able intellect,  which  he  used  to  maintain  his 
power  and  to  strengthen  and  spread  his  popu- 
larity. He  possessed  large  means — his  own 
and  his  wife's  (nee  Countess  Branitsky) — and 
received  an  enormous  salary  as  viceroy;  and  he 

105 


106  HADJI   MUR  AD 

spent  a  great  part  of  his  means  on  building  a 
palace  and  laying  out  a  garden  on  the  south 
coast  of  the  Crimea. 

On  the  evening  of  4th  December  1852  a 
courier's  troyka  drew  up  before  his  palace  in 
Tiflis.  A  tired  officer,  black  with  dust,  whom 
General  Kozlovsky  had  sent  with  the  news  of 
Hadji  Murad's  surrender  to  the  Russians,  went 
stretching  the  stiffened  muscles  of  his  legs 
past  the  sentinel,  and  entered  the  wide  porch. 
It  was  six  o'clock,  and  Vorontsov  was  just  go- 
ing in  to  dinner,  when  he  was  informed  of  the 
arrival  of  the  courier.  Vorontsov  received  him 
at  once,  and  was  therefore  a  few  minutes  late 
for  dinner. 

When  he  entered  the  drawing-room,  the  thirty 
persons  invited  to  dine,  sitting  beside  the  Prin- 
cess Elizabeth  Ksaverevna  Vorontsov,  or  stand- 
ing in  groups  by  the  windows,  turned  their  faces 
towards  him.  Vorontsov  was  dressed  in  his 
usual  black  military  coat,  with  shoulder-straps 
but  no  epaulets,  and  wore  the  White  Cross  of 
the  Order  of  St.  George  at  his  neck. 

His  clean-shaven,  foxlike  face  smiled  pleas- 
antly as,  screwing  up  his  eyes,  he  surveyed  the 


HADJI   MUR  AD  107 

assembly.  Entering  witli  quick,  soft  steps  he 
apologised  to  the  ladies  for  being  late,  greeted 
the  men,  and  approaching  the  Princess  Ma- 
nana  Orbelytini — a  tall,  fine,  handsome  woman 
of  Oriental  type  about  forty-five  years  of  age — 
he  offered  her  his  arm  to  take  her  in  to  dinner. 
The  Princess  Elizabeth  Ksaverevna  Vorontsov 
herself  gave  her  arm  to  a  red-haired  general 
with  bristly  moustaches,  who  was  visiting  Tiflis. 
A  Georgian  Prince  offered  his  arm  to  the  Prin- 
cess Vorontsov 's  friend,  the  Countess  Choi- 
seuil ;  Dr.  Andreevsky,  the  aide-de-camp, 
and  others,  with  ladies  or  without,  followed 
these  first  couples.  Footmen  in  livery  and 
knee-breeches  drew  back  and  replaced  the 
guests'  chairs  when  they  sat  down,  while  the 
major-domo  ceremoniously  ladled  out  steaming 
soup  from  a  silver  tureen. 

Vorontsov  took  his  place  in  the  centre  of  one 
side  of  the  long  table,  and  his  wife  sat  opposite, 
with  the  General  on  her  right.  On  the  Prince's 
right  sat  his  lady,  the  beautiful  Orbelyani ;  and 
on  his  left  was  a  graceful,  dark,  red-cheeked 
Georgian  woman,  glittering  with  jewels  and  in- 
cessantly smiling. 


108  HADJI   MUR  AD 

'' Excellent es,  chere  amie!"  ^  replied  Voron- 
tsov  to  his  wife's  inquiry  about  what  news  the 
courier  had  brought  him.  "Simon  a  eu  de  la 
chance!"  ^  And  he  began  to  tell  aloud,  so  that 
every  one  could  hear,  the  striking  news  (for 
him  alone  not  quite  unexpected,  because  nego- 
tiations had  long  been  going  on)  that  the 
bravest  and  most  famous  of  Shamil's  officers, 
Hadji  Murad,  had  come  over  to  the  Russians, 
and  would  in  a  day  or  two  be  brought  to  Tiflis. 

Everybody — even  the  young  aides-de-camp 
and  officials  who  sat  at  the  far  ends  of  the  table, 
and  who  had  been  quietly  laughing  at  something 
among  themselves — became  silent  and  listened. 

"And  you.  General,  have  you  ever  met  this 
Hadji  Muriid?"  asked  the  Princess  of  her 
neighbour,  the  carroty  General  with  the  bristly 
moustaches,  when  the  Prince  had  finished 
speaking. 

"More  than  once,  Princess." 

And  the  General  went  on  to  tell  how  Hadji 
Mur6d,  after  the  mountaineers  had  captured 
Gergebel    in    1843,    had    fallen   upon    General 

1  "Excellent,  my  dear!" 

2  "Simon  has  bad  good   fortune." 


HADJI   MUR  AD  109 

Pablen's  detachment  and  killed  Colonel  Zolo- 
tukhin  almost  before  their  very  eyes. 

Vorontsov  listened  to  the  General  and  smiled 
amiably,  evidently  pleased  that  the  latter  had 
joined  in  the  conversation.  But  suddenly  Vor- 
ontsov's  face  assumed  an  absent-minded  and 
depressed  expression. 

The  General,  having  started  talking,  had  be- 
gun to  tell  of  his  second  encounter  with  Hadji 
Murad. 

''Why,  it  was  he,  if  your  Excellency  will 
please  remember,"  said  the  General,  ''who 
arranged  the  ambush  that  attacked  the  rescue 
party  in  the  'Biscuit'  expedition." 

"Where?"  asked  Vorontsov,  screwing  up  his 
eyes. 

What  the  brave  General  spoke  of  as  the 
"rescue,"'  was  the  affair  in  the  unfortunate 
Dargo  campaign  in  which  a  whole  detachment, 
including  Prince  Vorontsov  who  commanded  it, 
would  certainly  have  perished  had  it  not  been 
rescued  by  the  arrival  of  fresh  troops.  Every 
one  knew  that  the  whole  Dargo  campaign  under 
Vorontsov 's  command — in  which  the  Russians 
lost  many  killed  and  wounded  and  several  can- 


no  HADJI    MURAD 

non — had  been  a  shameful  affair;  and  there- 
fore, if  any  one  mentioned  it  in  Vorontsov's 
presence,  they  only  did  so  in  the  aspect  in  which 
Vorontsov  had  reported  it  to  the  Tsar:  as  a 
brilliant  achievement  of  the  Russian  army. 
But  the  word  ''rescue"  plainly  indicated  that 
it  was  not  a  brilliant  victory,  but  a  blunder 
costing  many  lives.  Everybody  understood 
this,  and  some  pretended  not  to  notice  the 
meaning  of  the  General's  words,  others  nerv- 
ously waited  to  see  what  would  follow,  while  a 
few  exchanged  glances  and  smiled.  Only  the 
carroty  General  with  the  bristly  moustaches 
noticed  nothing,  and,  carried  away  by  his  nar- 
rative, quietly  replied, — 

"At  the  rescue,  your  Excellency." 
Having  started  on  his  favourite  theme  the 
General  recounted  circumstantially  how  Hadji 
Muriid  had  so  cleverly  cut  the  detachment  in 
two,  that  if  the  rescue  party  had  not  arrived 
(he  seemed  to  be  particularly  fond  of  repeating 
the  word  "rescue")  not  a  man  in  the  division 
would  have  escaped,  because.  .  .  .  The 
General  did  not  finish  his  storv,  for  Manana 
Orbelyani,  having  understood  what  was  happen- 


HADJI   MUR  AD  111 

iiig',  interrupted  him  by  asking  if  he  had  foimd 
comfortable  quarters  iu  Tifiis.  The  General, 
surprised,  glanced  at  everybody  all  round,  and 
saw  his  aides-de-camp  from  the  end  of  the  table 
looking  fixedly  and  significantly  at  him,  and  sud- 
denly he  understood !  Withou*^  rejjlying  to  the 
Princess's  question  he  frowned,  became  silent, 
and  began  hurriedly  eating,  without  chewing, 
the  delicacy  that  lay  on  his  plate,  both  the 
appearance  and  taste  of  which  completely  mys- 
tified him. 

Everybody  felt  uncomfortable,  hut  the  dis- 
comfort of  the  situation  was  relieved  by  the 
Georgian  Prince — a  very  stupid  man,  but  an 
extraordinarily  refined  and  artful  flatterer  and 
courtier — who  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  Prin- 
cess Vorontsov.  Without  seeming  to  have  no- 
ticed anything,  he  began  to  relate  how  Hadji 
Murad  had  carried  oiT  the  widow  of  Akhmet 
Khan  of  Mekhtuli. 

''He  came  into  the  village  at  night,  seized 
what  he  wanted,  and  galloped  off  again  with  the 
whole  party." 

"Why  did  he  want  that  particular  woman?" 
asked  the  Princess. 


112  HADJI   MURAD 

'^Oh,  he  was  her  husband's  enemy,  and  pur- 
sued him,  but  could  never  once  succeed  in  meet- 
ing him  right  up  to  the  time  of  his  death,  so  he 
revenged  himself  on  the  widow." 

The  Princess  translated  this  into  French  to 
her  old  friend  the  Countess  Choiseuil,  who  sat 
next  to  the  Georgian  Prince. 

''Quelle  horreur!"^  said  the  Countess,  clos- 
ing her  eyes  and  shaking  her  head. 

'^Oh,  no !"  said  Vorontsov,  smiling.  "I  have 
been  told  that  he  treated  his  captive  with 
chivalrous  respect  and  afterwards  released 
her. ' ' 

^* Yes,  for  a  ransom!" 

"Well,  of  course.  But,  all  the  same,  he  acted 
honourably." 

These  words  of  the  Prince's  set  the  tone  for 
the  further  conversation.  The  courtiers  under- 
stood that  the  more  importance  was  attributed 
to  Hadji  Murad  the  better  pleased  the  Prince 
would  be. 

"The  man's  audacity  is  amazing.  A  remark- 
able man!" 

"Why,  in  1849,  he  dashed  into  Temir  Khan 

3  How  horrible !" 


HADJI   MUR AD  113 

Shurj'i,  and  plundered  the  shops  in  broad  day- 
light.'^ 

An  Armenian  sitting  at  the  end  of  the  table, 
who  had  been  in  Temir  Khan  Shura  at  the 
time,  related  the  i3articulars  of  that  exploit  of 
Hadji  Murad's. 

In  fact,  only  Hadji  Murad  was  talked  about 
during  the  whole  dinner. 

Everybody  in  succession  praised  his  courage, 
his  ability,  and  his  magnanimity.  Some  one 
mentioned  his  having  ordered  twenty-six  prison- 
ers to  be  slain;  but  that  too  was  met  by  the 
usual  re,]oinder,  ''What's  to  be  done?  A  la 
guerre,  comme  a  la  guerre!"* 

"He  is  a  great  man." 

''Had  he  been  born  in  Europe  he  might  have 
been  another  Napoleon,"  said  the  stupid  Geor- 
gian i^rince  with  a  gift  of  flattery. 

He  knew  that  every  mention  of  Napoleon  was 
pleasant  to  Vorontsov,  who  wore  the  White 
Cross  at  his  neck  as  a  reward  for  having  de- 
feated him. 

"Well,  not  Napoleon,  perhaps,  but  a  gallant 
cavalry  general,  if  you  like,"  said  Vorontsov. 

*  "War  is  war." 


114  HADJI   MURAD 

''If  not  Napoleon,  then  Murad." 

''And  his  name  is  Hadji  Murad !" 

"Hadji  Murad  has  surrendered,  and  now 
there'll  be  an  end  to  Shamil  also,"  some  one  re- 
marked. 

"They  feel  that  now" — this  "now"  meant 
under  Vorontsov — "they  can't  hold  out,"  re- 
marked another. 

"Tout  cela  est  grace  a  vous!"^  said  Ma- 
nana  Orbelyani. 

Prince  Vorontsov  tried  to  moderate  the  waves 
of  flattery  which  began  to  flow  over  him.  Still, 
it  was  pleasant,  and  in  the  best  of  spirits  he 
led  his  lady  back  into  the  drawing-room. 

After  dinner,  when  coffee  was  being  served  in 
the  drawing-room,  the  Prince  was  particularly 
amiable  to  everybody,  and  going  up  to  the  Gen- 
eral with  the  red  bristly  moustaches,  he  tried  to 
appear  not  to  have  noticed  his  blunder. 

Having  made  a  round  of  the  visitors,  he  sat 
down  to  the  card  table.  He  only  played  the 
old-fashioned  game  of  ombre.  The  Prince's 
partners  were  the  Georgian  Prince,  an  Arme- 

5  "And  all  that,  tlianks  to  tou  !" 


HAD  Ji    MUliAD  115 

nian  General  (who  had  learnt  the  game  of  ombre 
from  Prince  Vorontsov's  valet,  and  the  fourth 
was  Dr.  Andreevsky,  a  man  remarkable  for  the 
great  influence  he  exercised. 

Placing  beside  him  his  gold  snuff-box,  with  a 
portrait  of  xVlexander  I.  on  the  lid,  the  Prince 
tore  open  a  pack  of  highly-glazed  cards,  and 
was  going  to  spread  them  out  when  his  Italian 
valet,  Giovanni,  brought  him  a  letter  on  a  silver 
tray. 

"Another  courier,  your  Excellency." 

Vorontsov  laid  down  the  cards,  excused  him- 
self, opened  the  letter,  and  began  to  read. 

The  letter  was  from  his  son,  who  described 
Hadji  Murad's  surrender,  and  his  own  encoun- 
ter with  Meller-Zakomelsky. 

The  Princess  came  up  and  inquired  what  their 
son  had  written. 

"It's  all  about  the  same  matter.  .  .  .  II  a 
eu  quelques  desagrcments  auec  le  commandant 
de  la  place.  Simon  a  eu  tort.^  .  .  .  But 
'All's  well  that  ends  well,'  "  he  added  in  Eng- 
lish,   handing    the    letter    to    his    wife;    and 

6  "He  has  had  some  unpleasantness  with  the  comiuander 
of  the  place.     Simon  was  in  the  wrong." 


116  HADJI   MURAD 

turning  to  his  respectfully  waiting  partners,  he 
asked  them  to  draw  cards. 

When  the  first  round  had  been  dealt,  Voron- 
tsov  did  what  he  was  in  the  habit  of  doing  when 
in  a  particularly  pleasant  mood :  with  his  white, 
wrinkled  old  hand  he  took  out  a  pinch  of  French 
snuff,  carried  it  up  to  his  nose,  and  released  it. 


X 

When,  next  day,  Hadji  Murad  appeared  at  the 
Prince's  palace,  the  waiting-room  was  already 
full  of  people.  Yesterday's  General  with  the 
bristlv  moustaches  was  there  in  full  uniform, 
with  all  his  decorations,  having  come  to  take 
leave.  There  was  the  commander  of  a  regi- 
ment who  was  in  danger  of  being  court-mar- 
tialled  for  misappropriating  commissariat 
money;  and  there  was  a  rich  Armenian  (pat- 
ronised by  Doctor  Andreevsky)  who  wanted  to 
get  from  the  Government  a  renewal  of  his  mo- 
nopoly for  the  sale  of  vodka.  There,  dressed  in 
black,  was  the  widow  of  an  officer  who  had  been 
killed  in  action.  She  had  come  to  ask  for  a 
pension,  or  for  free  education  for  her  children. 
There  was  a  ruined  Georgian  Prince  in  a 
magnificent  Georgian  costume,  who  was  trying 
to  obtain  for  himself  some  confiscated  church 
property.  There  was  an  official  with  a  large 
roll  of  paper  containing  a  new  plan  for  subju- 
gating the  Caucasus.     There  was  also  a  Khan, 

117 


118  HADJI   MUR  AD 

who  had  come  solely  to  be  able  to  tell  his  people 
at  home  that  he  had  called  on  the  Prince. 

They  all  waited  their  turn,  and  were  one  by 
one  shown  into  the  Prince's  cabinet  and  out 
again  by  the  aide-de-camp,  a  handsome,  fair- 
haired  youth. 

When  Hadji  Murad  entered  the  waiting-room 
with  his  brisk  though  limping  step  all  eyes 
were  turned  towards  him,  and  he  heard  his 
name  whispered  from  various  parts  of  the  room. 
He  was  dressed  in  a  long  white  Circassian 
coat  over  a  brown  heshmet  trimmed  round  the 
collar  with  fine  silver  lace.  He  wore  black  leg- 
gings and  soft  shoes  of  the  same  colour,  which 
were  stretched  over  his  instep  as  tight  as  gloves. 
On  his  head  he  wore  a  high  cap,  draped  turban- 
fashion — that  same  turban  for  which,  on  the 
denunciation  of  Akhmet  Khan,  he  had  been 
arrested  by  General  Kliigenau,  and  which 
had  been  the  cause  of  his  going  over  to 
Shamil. 

Hadji  Murad  stepped  briskly  across  the  par- 
quet floor  of  the  waiting-room,  his  whole  slender 
figure  swaying  slightly  in  consequence  of  his 
lameness  in  one  leg,  whcli  was  shorter  than  the 


HADJI   MUR  AD  119 

other.  His  eyes,  set  far  apart,  looked  calmly 
before  him  and  seemed  to  see  no  one. 

The  handsome  aide-de-camp,  having  greeted 
him,  asked  him  to  take  a  seat  while  he  went  to 
announce  hitn  to  the  Prince;  but  Hadji  Murad 
declined  to  sit  down,  and,  putting  his  hand  on 
his  dagger,  stood  with  one  foot  advanced,  look- 
ing contemptuously  at  all  those  present. 

The  Prince's  interpreter,  Prince  Tarkhanov, 
approached  Hadji  Murad  and  spoke  to  him. 
Hadji  Murad  answered  abruptly  and  unwill- 
ingly. A  Kumyk  Prince,  who  was  there  to 
lodge  a  complaint  against  a  police  official,  came 
out  of  the  Prince's  room,  and  then  the  aide-de- 
camp called  Hadji  Murad,  led  him  to  the  door 
of  the  cabinet,  and  showed  him  in. 

Vorontsov  received  Hadji  Murad  standing 
beside  his  table.  The  white  old  face  of  the 
commander-in-chief  did  not  wear  yesterday's 
smile,  but  was  rather  stern  and  solemn. 

On  entering  the  large  room,  with  its  enormous 
table  and  great  windows  with  green  Venetian 
blinds,  Hadji  Murad  placed  his  small  sunburnt 
hands  on  that  part  of  his  chest  where  the  front 
of  his  white  coat  overlapped,  and,  having  low- 


120  HADJI   MURAD 

ered  his  eyes,  began  without  hurrying  to  speak 
in  Tartar  distinctly  and  respectfully,  using  the 
Kumyk  dialect,  which  he  spoke  well. 

'*I  put  myself  under  the  powerful  protection 
of  the  great  Tsar  and  of  yourself,"  said  he, 
''and  promise  to  serve  the  White  Tsar  in  faith 
and  truth  to  the  last  drop  of  my  blood,  and  I 
hope  to  be  useful  to  you  in  the  war  with  Shamil, 
who  is  my  enemy  and  yours." 

Having  heard  the  interpreter  out,  Vorontsov 
glanced  at  Hadji  Murad,  and  Hadji  Murad 
glanced  at  Vorontsov. 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met,  and  expressed 
to  each  other  much  that  could  not  have  been  put 
into  words,  and  that  was  not  at  all  what  the  in- 
terpreter said.  Without  words  they  told  each 
other  the  whole  truth.  Vorontsov 's  eyes  said 
that  he  did  not  believe  a  single  word  Hadji  Mu- 
rad was  saying,  and  that  he  knew  he  was  and 
always  would  be  an  enemy  to  everything  Rus- 
sian, and  had  surrendered  only  because  he  was 
obliged  to.  Hadji  Murad  understood  this,  and 
yet  continued  to  give  assurances  of  his  fidelity. 
His  eyes  said,  ''That  old  man  ought  to  be 
thinking   of  his   death,   and   not   of   war;   but 


HADJI   MUE  AD  121 

though  old  he  is  cunning,  and  I  must  be  care- 
ful." Vorontsov  understood  this  also,  but 
nevertheless  he  spoke  to  Hadji  Murad  in  the 
way  he  considejed  necessary  for  the  success  of 
the  war. 

''Tell  him,"  said  Vorontsov,  ''that  our  sov- 
ereign is  as  merciful  as  he  is  mighty,  and  will 
probably  at  my  request  pardon  him  and  take 
him  into  his  service.  .  .  .  Have  you  told 
him?"    he    asked,    looking    at    Hadji    Murad. 

.  .  .  "Until  I  receive  my  master's  gra- 
cious decision,  tell  him  I  take  it  on  myself  to 
receive  him  and  to  make  his  sojourn  among  us 
pleasant." 

Hadji  Murad  again  pressed  his  hands  to  the 
centre  of  his  chest,  and  began  to  say  something 
with  animation. 

"He  says,"  the  interpreter  translated,  "that 
before,  when  he  governed  Avaria  in  1839,  he 
served  the  Russians  faithfully,  and  would  never 
have  deserted  them  had  his  enemv,  Akhmet 
Khan,  wishing  to  ruin  him,  not  calumniated 
him  to  General  Kliigenau." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  Vorontsov  (though, 
if  he  had  ever  known,  he  had  long  forgotten 


122  HADJI   MUR  AD 

it).  ''I  know,"  said  lie,  sitting  down  and  mo- 
tioning Hadji  Murad  to  the  divan  that  stood 
beside  the  wall.  But  Hadji  Murad  did  not  sit 
down.  Shrugging  his  powerful  shoulders  as  a 
sign  that  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  sit 
in  the  presence  of  so  important  a  man,  he  went 
on,  addressing  the  interpreter, — 

''Akhmet  Khan  and  Shamil  are  both  my  ene- 
mies. Tell  the  Prince  that  Akhmet  Khan  is 
dead,  and  I  cannot  revenge  myself  on  him ;  but 
Sliamil  lives,  and  I  will  not  die  without  taking 
vengeance  on  him,"  said  he,  knitting  his  brows 
and  tightly  closing  his  mouth. 

''Yes,  yes;  but  how  does  he  want  to  revenge 
himself  on  Shamil?"  said  Vorontsov  quietly  to 
the  interpreter.  "And  tell  him  he  may  sit 
down." 

Hadji  Munid  again  declined  to  sit  down;  and, 
in  answer  to  the  question,  replied  that  his  ob- 
ject in  coming  over  to  the  Russians  was  to  help 
them  to  destroy  Shamil. 

"Very  well,  very  well,"  said  Vorontsov; 
"but  what  exactly  does  he  wish  to  do?  .  .  . 
Sit  down,  sit  down !" 

Hadji  Murad  sat  down,  and  said  that  if  only 


HADJT   MURAD  123 

they  would  send  liiiii  to  tlio  Lesgliian  line,  and 
would  give  liini  an  army,  be  would  guarantee  to 
raise  the  whole  of  Daghestan,  and  Shaniil  would 
then  be  unable  to  hold  out. 

''That  would  be  excellent.  .  .  .  I'll  think 
it  over,"  said  Vorontsov. 

The  interpreter  translated  Vorontsov 's  words 
to  Hadji  Murjkl. 

Hadji  Murad  pondered. 

"Tell  the  Sirdar  one  thing  more,"  Hadji 
Murad  began  again:  "That  mj  family  are  in 
the  hands  of  my  enemy,  and  that  as  long  as 
they  are  in  the  mountains  I  am  bound,  and  can- 
not serve  him.  Shamil  would  kill  my  wife  and 
my  mother  and  my  children  if  I  went  openly 
against  him.  Let  the  Prince  first  exchange  my 
family  for  the  prisoners  he  has,  and  then  I  will 
destroy  Shamil  or  die!" 

"All  right,  all  right,"  said  Vorontsov.  "I 
will  think  it  over.  .  .  .  Now  let  him  go  to 
the  chief  of  the  staff,  and  explain  to  him  in  de- 
tail his  position,  intentions,  and  wishes." 

Thus  ended  the  first  interview  between  Hadji 
Murad  and  Vorontsov, 

That  evening,  at  the  new  theatre,  which  was 


124  HADJI    MUR  AD 

decorated  in  Oriental  style,  an  Italian  opera 
was  performed.  Vorontsov  was  in  his  box 
when  the  striking  figure  of  the  limping  Hadji 
Murad  wearing  a  turban  appeared  in  the  stalls. 
He  came  in  with  Loris-Melikov/  Vorontsov 's 
aide-de-camp,  in  whose  charge  he  was  placed, 
and  took  a  seat  in  the  front  row.  Having  sat 
through  the  first  act  with  Oriental,  Mohamme- 
dan dignity,  expressing  no  pleasure,  but  only 
obvious  indifference,  he  rose  and  looking  calmly 
round  at  the  audience  went  out,  drawing  to  him- 
self everybody's  attention. 

The  next  day  was  Monday,  and  there  was  the 
usual  evening  party  at  the  Vorontsovs'.  In 
the  large  brightly-lighted  hall  a  band  was  play- 
ing, hidden  among  trees.  Young  and  not  very 
young  women,  in  dresses  displaying  their  bare 
necks  arms  and  breasts,  turned  round  and 
round  in  the  embrace  of  men  in  bright  uni- 
forms. At  the  buffet  footmen  in  red  swallow- 
tail coats  and  wearing  shoes  and  knee-breeches, 
poured  out  champagne  and  served  sweetmeats 

1  Count  Michael  Tarielovitch  Loris-JMelikov,  who  after- 
wards became  Minister  of  tlie  Interior,  and  framed  the  Lib- 
eral ulcase  which  was  signed  by  Alexander  II.  the  day  that 
be  was  assassinated. 


HADJI    MUR  AD  125 

to  the  ladies.  The  ''Sirdar's"  wife  also,  in 
spite  of  her  age,  went  about  half-dressed  among 
the  visitors,  affably  smiling,  and  through  the 
interpreter  said  a  few  amiable  words  to  Hadji 
Murjid,  who  glanced  at  the  visitors  with  the 
same  indifference  he  had  shown  yesterday  in 
the  theatre.  After  the  hostess,  other  half- 
naked  women  came  up  to  him,  and  all  of  them 
shamelessly  stood  before  him  and  smilingly 
asked  him  the  same  question:  How  he  liked 
what  he  saw?  Vorontsov  himself,  wearing 
gold  epaulets  and  gold  shoulder-knots,  with  his 
white  cross  and  ribbon  at  his  neck,  came  up 
and  asked  him  the  same  question,  evidently 
feeling  sure,  like  all  the  others,  that  Hadji 
Murad  could  not  help  being  pleased  at  what  he 
saw.  Hadji  Murad  replied  to  Vorontsov,  as 
he  had  replied  to  them  all,  that  among  his  peo- 
ple nothing  of  the  kind  was  done,  without  ex- 
pressing an  opinion  as  to  whether  it  was  good 
or  bad  that  it  was  so. 

Here  at  the  ball  Hadji  Murad  tried  to  speak 
to  Vorontsov  about  buying  out  his  family;  but 
Vorontsov,  pretending  he  had  not  heard  him, 
walked   away;    and   Loris-Melikov    afterwards 


126  HADJI   MURAD 

told  Hadji  Murad  that  this  was  not  the  place 
to  talk  about  business. 

When  it  struck  eleven  Hadji  Murad,  having 
made  sure  of  the  time  by  the  watch  the  Vor- 
ontsovs  had  given  him,  asked  Loris-Melikov 
whether  he  might  now  leave.  Loris-Melikov 
said  he  might,  though  it  would  be  better  to  stay. 
In  spite  of  this  Hadji  Murad  did  not  stay,  but 
drove  in  the  phaeton  placed  at  his  disposal  to 
the  quarters  that  had  been  assigned  to  him. 


XI 

On  the  fifth  day  of  Hadji  Murad's  stay  in  Tiflis, 
Loris-Melikov,  the  Viceroy's  aide-de-camp, 
came  to  see  him  at  the  latter 's  command. 

"My  head  and  my  hands  are  glad  to  serve 
the  Sirdar,"  said  Hadji  Murad  with  his  usual 
diplomatic  expression,  bowing  his  head  and  put- 
ting his  hands  to  his  chest.  "Command  me!" 
said  he,  looking  amiably  into  Loris-Melikov 's 
face. 

Loris-Melikov  sat  down  in  an  arm-chair 
placed  by  the  table,  and  Hadji  Murad  sank  on 
to  a  low  divan  opposite,  and  resting  his  hands 
on  his  knees,  bowed  his  head  and  listened  at- 
tentively to  what  the  other  said  to  him. 

Loris-Melikov,  who  spoke  Tartar  fluently, 
told  him  that  though  the  Prince  knew  about  his 
l^ast  life,  he  yet  wanted  to  hear  the  whole  story 
from  himself. 

"Tell  it  me,  and  I  will  write  it  down  and 
translate  it  into  Russian,  and  the  Prince  will 
send  it  to  the  Emperor. ' ' 

127 


128  HADJI   MURAD 

Hadji  Murad  remained  silent  for  a  while  (he 
never  interrupted  any  one,  but  always  waited 
to  see  whether  his  collocutor  had  not  some- 
thing more  to  say).  Then  he  raised  his  head, 
shook  back  his  cap,  and  smiled  the  peculiar 
childlike  smile  that  had  captivated  Mary  Vas- 
ilevna. 

''I  can  do  that,"  said  he,  evidently  flattered 
by  the  thought  that  his  story  would  be  read  by 
the  Emperor. 

''Thou  must  tell  me"  (nobody  is  addressed 
as  ''you"  in  Tartar)  "everything,  deliberately, 
from  the  beginning,"  said  Loris-Melikov,  draw- 
ing a  notebook  from  his  pocket. 

"I  can  do  that,  only  there  is  much — very 
much — to  tell!  Many  events  have  happened!" 
said  Hadji  Murad. 

"If  thou  canst  not  do  it  all  in  one  day,  thou 
wilt  finish  it  another  time,"  said  Loris-Melikov. 

"Shall  I  begin  at  the  beginning?" 

"Yes,  at  the  very  beginning  .  .  .  where 
thou  wast  born,  and  where  thou  didst  live." 

Hadji  Murad 's  head  sank,  and  he  sat  in  that 
position  for  a  long  time.  Then  he  took  a  stick 
that  lay  beside  the  divan,  drew  a  little  knife 


HADJI   MUR  AD  129 

with  ivory  gold-inlaid  handle,  sharp  as  a  razor, 
from  under  his  dagger,  and  started  whittling 
the  stick  with  it  and  speaking  at  the  same  time. 

"Write:  Born  in  Tselmess,  a  small  aoul,  'the 
size  of  an  ass's  head,'  as  we  in  the  mountains 
say,"  he  began.  "Not  far  from  it,  about  two 
cannon-shots,  lies  Khunzakh,  where  the  Khans 
lived.  Our  family  was  closely  connected  with 
them. 

"My  mother,  when  my  eldest  brother  Osman 
was  born,  nursed  the  eldest  Khan,  Abu  Nutsal 
Khan.  Then  she  nursed  the  second  son  of  the 
Khan,  Umma  Khan,  and  reared  him;  but  Akh- 
met,  my  second  brother,  died;  and  when  I  was 
born  and  the  Khansha  ^  bore  Bulach  Khan,  my 
mother  would  not  go  as  wet-nurse  again.  My 
father  ordered  her  to,  but  she  would  not. 
She  said:  'I  should  again  kill  my  own  son;  and 
I  will  not  go.'  Then  my  father,  who  was  pas- 
sionate, struck  her  with  a  dagger,  and  would 
have  killed  her  had  they  not  rescued  her  from 
him.  So  she  did  not  give  me  up,  and  later  on 
she  composed  a  song  .  .  .  but  I  need  not 
tell  that. 

1  Khansha,  Khan's  wife. 


130  HADJI    MUR  AD 

"Well,  so  my  mother  did  not  go  as  nurse," 
he  said,  with  a  jerk  of  his  head,  "and  the 
Khansha  took  another  nurse,  but  still  remained 
fond  of  my  mother;  and  mother  used  to  take 
us  children  to  the  Khansha 's  palace,  and  we 
played  with  her  children,  and  she  was  fond 
of  us. 

'  '■  There  were  three  young  Khans :  Abu  Nutsal 
Khan,  my  brother  Osman's  foster-brother; 
Umma  Khan,  my  own  sworn  brother;  and 
Bulach  Khan,  the  youngest — whom  Shamil 
threw  over  the  precii^ice.  But  that  happened 
later. 

"I  was  about  sixteen  when  murids  began  to 
visit  the  aouls.  They  beat  the  stones  with 
wooden  scimitars,  and  cried,  'Mussulmans, 
Ghazavdt!'  The  Chechens  all  went  over  to 
Muridism,  and  the  Avars  began  to  go  over, 
too.  I  was  then  living  in  the  palace  like  a 
brother  of  the  Khans.  I  could  do  as  I  liked, 
and  I  became  rich.  I  had  horses  and  weapons 
and  money.  I  lived  for  pleasure  and  had  no 
care,  and  went  on  like  that  till  the  time  when 
Kazi-Mulla,  the  Imam,  was  killed  and  Hamzad 
succeeded  him.     Hamzad   sent   envoys   to   the 


HADJI   MUE  AD  131 

Khans  to  say  that  if  they  did  not  join  the 
Ghazavdt  he  would  destroy  Khunzakh. 

"This  needed  consideration.  The  Khans 
feared  the  Russians,  but  were  also  afraid  to 
join  in  the  Holy  War.  The  old  Khansha  sent 
me  with  her  second  son,  Umma  Khan,  to  Tiflis, 
to  ask  the  Russian  commander-in-chief  for  help 
against  Hamzad.  The  commander-in-chief  at 
Tiflis  was  Baron  Rosen.  He  did  not  receive 
either  me  or  Umma  Khan.  He  sent  word  that 
he  would  help  us,  but  did  nothing.  Only  his 
officers  came  riding  to  us  and  played  cards  with 
Umma  Khan,  They  made  him  drunk  with 
wine,  and  took  him  to  bad  places;  and  he  lost 
all  he  had  to  them  at  cards.  His  body  was  as 
strong  as  a  bull's,  and  he  was  as  brave  as  a 
lion,  but  his  soul  was  weak  as  water.  He 
would  have  gambled  away  his  last  horses  and 
weapons  if  I  had  not  made  him  come  away. 

"After  visiting  Tiflis  my  ideas  changed,  and 
I  advised  the  old  Khansha  and  the  Khans  to 
join  the  Ghazavdt.     .     .     ." 

"What  made  you  change  your  mind?"  asked 
Loris-Melikov.  "Were  you  not  pleased  with 
the  Russians?" 


132  HADJI   MUEAD 

Hadji  Murad  paused. 

*'No,  I  was  not  pleased,"  lie  answered  de- 
cidedly, closing  bis  eyes,  "And  there  was  also 
another  reason  why  I  wished  to  join  the  Gha- 
zavat." 

''What  was  that?" 

**Why,  near  Tselmess  the  Khan  and  I  en- 
countered three  murids,  two  of  whom  escaped, 
but  the  third  one  I  shot  with  my  pistol. 

''He  was  still  alive  when  I  approached  to 
take  his  weapons.  He  looked  up  at  me,  and 
said,  'Thou  hast  killed  me.  .  .  .  T  am 
happy;  but  thou  art  a  Mussulman,  young  and 
strong.     Join  the  Ghazavdt!    God  wills  it!" 

"And  did  you  join  it!" 

"I  did  not,  but  it  made  me  think,"  said  Hadji 
Murad,  and  he  went  on  with  his  tale. 

"When  Hamzad  approached  Khunzakh  we 
sent  our  Elders  to  him  to  say  that  we  would 
agree  to  join  the  Ghazavdt  if  the  Imam  would 
send  a  learned  man  to  us  to  explain  it  to  us. 
Hamzad  had  our  Elders'  moustaches  shaved  off, 
their  nostrils  pierced,  and  cakes  hung  to  their 
noses ;  and  in  that  condition  he  sent  them  back 
to  us. 


HADJI   MUR AD  133 

"The  Elders  brought  word  that  Hamzad  was 
ready  to  send  a  Sheik  to  teach  us  the  Ghazavdt, 
but  only  if  the  Khansha  sent  him  her  youngest 
son  as  a  hostage.  She  took  him  at  his  word, 
and  sent  her  youngest  son,  Bulach  Khan.  Ham- 
zad received  him  well,  and  sent  to  invite  the  two 
elder  brothers  also.  He  sent  word  that  he 
wished  to  serve  the  Khans  as  his  father  had 
served  their  father.  .  .  .  The  Khansha  was 
a  weak,  stupid  and  conceited  woman,  as  all 
women  are  when  they  are  not  under  control. 
She  was  afraid  to  send  away  both  sons,  and 
sent  only  Umma  Khan,  I  went  with  him.  "VVe 
were  met  by  murids  about  a  mile  before  we  ar- 
rived, and  they  sang  and  shot  and  caracoled 
around  us;  and  when  we  drew  near,  Hamzad 
came  out  of  his  tent  and  went  up  to  Umma 
Khan's  stirrup  and  received  him  as  a  Khan. 
He  said, — 

"  'I  have  not  done  any  harm  to  thy  family, 
and  do  not  wish  to  do  any.  Only  do  not  kill 
me,  and  do  not  prevent  my  bringing  the  people 
over  to  the  Ghazavdt,  and  I  will  serve  you  with 
my  whole  army,  as  my  father  served  your 
father!    Let  me  live  in  your  house,  and  I  will 


134  HADJI   MUR  AD 

help  you  with  my  advice,  and  you  shall  do  as 
you  like!' 

''Umroa  Khan  was  slow  of  speech.  He  did 
not  know  how  to  reply,  and  remained  silent. 
Then  I  said  that  if  this  was  so,  let  Hamzad  come 
to  Khunzakh,  and  the  Khansha  and  the  Khans 
would  receive  him  with  honour.  .  .  .  But 
I  was  not  allowed  to  finish — and  here  I  first  en- 
countered Shamil,  who  was  beside  the  Imam. 
He  said  to  me, — 

"  'Thou  hast  not  been  asked.  ...  It  was 
the  Khan !  ' 

''I  was  silent,  and  Hamzad  led  Umma  Khan 
into  his  tent.  Afterwards  Hamzc4d  called  me 
and  ordered  me  to  go  to  Khunzakh  with  his 
envoys.  I  went.  The  envoys  began  persuad- 
ing the  Khansha  to  send  her  eldest  son  also  to 
Hamzad.  I  saw  there  was  treachery,  and  told 
her  not  to  send  him ;  but  a  woman  has  as  much 
sense  in  her  head  as  an  egg  has  hair.  She 
ordered  her  son  to  go.  Abu  Nutsal  Khan  did 
not  wish  to.  Then  she  said,  'I  see  thou  art 
afraid!'  Like  a  bee,  she  knew  where  to  sting 
him  most  painfully.  Abu  Nutsal  Khan  flushed, 
and  did  not  speak  to  her  any  more,  but  ordered 


HADJI   MUR  AD  135 

his   horse   to   be   saddled.     I   went   with   him. 

"Hamziid  met  us  with  even  greater  honour 
than  he  had  shown  Umma  Khan.  He  himself 
rode  out  two  rifle-shot  lengths  down  the  hill  to 
meet  us.  A  large  party  of  horsemen  with  their 
banners  followed  him,  and  they  too  sang,  shot, 
and  caracoled. 

''When  we  reached  the  camp,  Hamzad  led  the 
Khan  into  his  tent,  and  I  remained  with  the 
horses.     .     .    . 

' '  I  was  some  way  down  the  hill  when  I  heard 
shots  fired  in  Hamzjid's  tent.  I  ran  there,  and 
saw  Umma  Khan  lying  prone  in  a  pool  of  blood, 
and  Abu  Nutsal  was  fighting  the  murids.  One 
of  his  cheeks  had  been  hacked  off,  and  hung 
down.  He  supported  it  with  one  hand,  and 
with  the  other  stabbed  with  his  dagger  at  all 
who  came  near  him.  I  saw  him  strike  down 
Hamzad 's  brother,  and  aim  a  blow  at  another 
man;  but  then  the  murids  fired  at  him  and  he 
fell." 

Hadji  Murad  stopped,  and  his  sunburnt  face 
flushed  a  dark  red,  and  his  eyes  became  blood- 
shot. 

"I  was  seized  with  fear,  and  ran  awav. " 


136  HADJI   MURAD 

''Eeally?  .  .  .  I  thought  thou  never  wast 
afraid,"  said  Loris-Melikov. 

"Never  after  that.  .  .  .  Since  then  I 
have  always  remembered  that  shame,  and  when 
I  recalled  it  I  feared  nothing!" 


XII 

' '  But  enough !  It  is  time  for  me  to  pray, ' '  said 
Hadji  Murad,  drawing  from  an  inner  breast- 
pocket of  his  Circassian  coat  Vorontsov's  re- 
peater watch  and  carefully  pressing  the  spring. 
The  repeater  struck  twelve  and  a  quarter. 
Hadji  Murad  listened  with  his  head  on  one  side, 
rej^ressing  a  childlike  smile. 

'^Kundk  Vorontsov's  present,"  he  said,  smil- 
ing. 

"It  is  a  good  watch,"  said  Loris-Melikov. 
''Well  then,  go  thou  and  pray,  and  I  will  wait." 

"YaksM.  Very  well,"  said  Hadji  Murad, 
and  went  to  his  bedroom. 

Left  by  himself,  Loris-Melikov  wrote  down 
in  his  notebook  the  chief  things  Hadji  Murad 
had  related ;  and  then  lighting  a  cigarette,  began 
to  pace  up  and  down  the  room.  On  reaching 
the  door  opposite  the  bedroom,  he  heard  ani- 
mated voices  speaking  rapidly  in  Tartar.  He 
guessed  that  the  speakers  were  Hadji  Murad 's 

137 


138  HADJI   MUR  AD 

miirids,  and,  opening  the  door,  he  went  in  to 
them. 

The  room  was  impregnated  with  that  special 
leathery  acid  smell  peculiar  to  the  mountain- 
eers. On  a  burka  spread  out  on  the  floor  sat 
the  one-eyed  red-haired  Gamzalo,  in  a  tattered 
greasy  beshmet,  plaiting  a  bridle.  He  was  say- 
ing something  excitedly,  speaking  in  a  hoarse 
voice;  but  when  Loris-Melikov  entered  he  im- 
mediately became  silent,  and  continued  his  work 
without  paying  any  attention  to  him. 

In  front  of  Gamzalo  stood  the  merry  Khan 
Mahoma,  showing  his  white  teeth,  his  black 
lashless  eyes  glittering,  saying  something  over 
and  over  again.  The  handsome  Eldar,  his 
sleeves  turned  up  on  his  strong  arms,  was  pol- 
ishing the  girths  of  a  saddle  suspended  from 
a  nail.  Khanefi,  the  principal  worker  and  man- 
ager of  the  household,  was  not  there;  he  was 
cooking  their  dinner  in  the  kitchen. 

''What  were  you  disputing  about?"  asked 
Loris-Melikov,  after  greeting  them. 

"Why,  he  keeps  on  praising  Shamil,"  said 
Khan  Mahoma,  giving  his  hand  to  Loris-Meli- 
kov. "He  says  Shamil  is  a  great  man,  learned, 
holy,  and  a  chhigit." 


HADJI   MUR  AD  139 

*'How  is  it  that  he  has  left  him  and  still 
praises  himr' 

"He  has  left  him,  and- still  praises  him,"  re- 
peated Khan  Mahoma,  his  teeth  showing  and 
his  eyes  glittering. 

"And  does  he  really  consider  him  a  saint?" 
asked  Loris-Melikov. 

"If  he  were  not  a  saint  the  people  would  not 
listen  to  him,"  said  Gamzalo  rapidly. 

"Shamil  is  no  saint,  but  Mansiir  was!"  re- 
plied Khan  Mahoma.  "He  was  a  real  saint. 
When  he  was  Imam  the  people  were  quite  dif- 
ferent. He  used  to  ride  through  the  aouls,  and 
the  people  used  to  come  out  and  kiss  the  hem 
of  his  coat  and  confess  their  sins  and  vow  to 
do  no  evil.  Then  all  the  people — so  the  old 
men  say — lived  like  saints:  not  drinking,  nor 
smoking,  nor  neglecting  their  prayers,  and  for- 
gave one  another  their  sins,  even  when  blood 
had  been  spilt.  If  any  one  then  found  money 
or  anything,  he  tied  it  to  a  stake  and  set  it  up 
by  the  roadside.  In  those  days  God  gave 
the  people  success  in  everything — not  as 
now." 

"In  the  mountains  they  don't  smoke  or  drink 
now,"  said  Gamzalo. 


140  HADJI   MUR AD 

''Your  Sliamil  is  a  Idmorey,"  said  Khan  Ma- 
homa,  winking  at  Loris-Melikov.  {Ldmorey 
was  a  contemptuous  term  for  a  mountain- 
eer.) 

"Yes,  Idmorey  means  mountaineer,"  replied 
Gamzalo.  "It  is  in  tbe  mountains  that  the 
eagles  dwell." 

"Smart  fellow.  Well  hit!"  said  Khan  Ma- 
homii  with  a  grin,  pleased  at  his  adversary's 
apt  retort. 

Seeing  the  silver  cigarette-case  in  Loris-Mel- 
ikov's  hand,  Khan  Mahoma  asked  for  a  ciga- 
rette; and  when  Loris-Melikov  remarked  that 
they  were  forbidden  to  smoke,  he  winked  with 
one  eye  and  jerking  his  head  in  the  direction 
of  Hadji  Murad's  bedroom  replied  that  they 
could  do  it  as  long  as  they  were  not  seen.  He 
at  once  began  smoking — not  inhaling — and 
pouting  his  red  lips  awkwardly  as  he  blew  out 
the  smoke. 

"That  is  wrong!"  said  Gamzalo  severely,  and 
left  the  room  for  a  time. 

Khan  Mahoma  winked  after  him,  and,  while 
smoking,  asked  Loris-Melikov  where  he  could 
best  buy  a  silk  heshmet  and  a  white  cap. 


HADJI   MUR AD  141 


(<' 


'Why;  hast  thou  so  much  money?" 

''I  have  enough,"  replied  Khan  Mahoma  with 
a  wink. 

''Ask  him  where  he  got  the  money,"  said 
Eldar,  turning  his  handsome  smiling  face 
towards  Loris-Melikov. 

''Oh,  I  won  it!"  said  Khan  Mahoma  quickly; 
and  related  how,  walking  in  Tiflis  the  day  be- 
fore, he  had  come  ujDon  a  group  of  men — Rus- 
sians and  Armenians — playing  at  orlychiJca  (a 
kind  of  heads-and-tails).  The  stake  was  a  large 
one :  three  gold  pieces  and  much  silver.  Khan 
Mahoma  at  once  saw  what  the  game  consisted 
in,  and,  jingling  the  coppers  he  had  in  his 
pocket,  he  went  up  to  the  players  and  said  he 
would  stake  the  whole  amount. 

"How  couldst  thou  do  it?  Hadst  thou  so 
much?"  asked  Loris-Melikov. 

"I  had  only  twelve  kopeks,"  said  Khan  Ma- 
homfi,  grinning. 

"Well,  but  if  thou  hadst  lost?" 

"Why,  look  here!"  said  Khan  Mahom6, 
pointing  to  his  pistol. 

"Wouldst  thou  have  given  that?" 

"Why  give  it?     I  should  have  run  away,  and 


142  HADJI   MURAD 

if  any  one  had  tried  to  stop  me  I  should  have 
killed  him— that's  all!" 

"Well,  and  didst  thou  win?" 
"Aye,  I  won  it  all,  and  went  awaj^!" 
Loris-Melikov  quite  understood  what  sort  of 
men  Khan  Mahoma  and  Eldar  were.  Khan 
Mahoma  was  a  merry  fellow,  careless  and  ready 
for  any  spree.  He  did  not  know  what  to  do 
with  his  superfluous  vitality.  He  was  always 
gay  and  reckless,  and  played  with  his  own  and 
other  people's  lives.  For  the  sake  of  that 
sport  with  life,  he  had  now  come  over  to  the 
Russians,  and  for  the  same  sport  he  might  go 
back  to  Shamil  to-morrow. 

Eldar  was  also  quite  easy  to  understand. 
He  was  a  man  entirely  devoted  to  his  murshid; 
calm,  strong,  and  firm. 

The  red-haired  Gamzalo  was  the  only  one 
Loris-Melikov  did  not  understand.  He  saw  that 
that  man  was  not  only  loyal  to  Shamil,  but  felt 
an  insuperable  aversion  contempt  repugnance 
and  hatred  for  all  Russians;  and  Loris-Melikov 
could  therefore  not  understand  why  he  had 
come  over  to  the  Russians.  It  occurred  to  him 
that,  as  some  of  the  higher  officials  suspected, 


HADJI   MUR AD  143 

Hadji  Murad's  surrender,  and  his  tales  of 
hatred  against  Shamil,  might  be  a  fraud;  and 
that  perhaps  he  had  surrendered  only  to  spy 
out  the  Russians'  weak  spots,  that — after  es- 
caping back  to  the  mountains — he  might  be  able 
to  direct  his  forces  accordingly.  Gamzalo's 
whole  person  strengthened  this  suspicion. 

"The  others,  and  Hadji  Murad  himself,  know 
how  to  hide  their  intentions;  but  this  one  be- 
trays them  by  his  open  hatred,"  thought  he. 

Loris-Melikov  tried  to  speak  to  him.  He 
asked  whether  he  did  not  feel  dull.  "No,  I 
don't!"  he  growled  hoarsely,  without  stopping 
his  work,  and  he  glanced  at  Loris-Melikov  out 
of  the  corner  of  his  one  eye.  He  replied  to  all 
Loris-Melikov 's  other  questions  in  a  similar 
manner. 

While  Loris-Melikov  was  in  the  room,  Hadji 
Murad's  fourth  murid,  the  Avar  Khaneti,  came 
in;  a  man  with  a  hairy  face  and  neck,  and  a 
vaulted  chest  as  rough  as  though  overgrown 
with  moss.  He  was  strong,  and  a  hard  worker ; 
always  engrossed  in  his  duties,  and,  like  Eldar, 
unquestionably  obedient  to  his  master. 

When  he  entered  the  room  to  fetch  some  rice, 


144  HADJI   MUEAD 

Loris-Melikov  stopped  liim  and  asked  where  he 
came  from,  and  how  long  he  had  been  with 
Hadji  Murad. 

"Five  years,"  replied  Khanefi.  "I  come 
from  the  same  aoul  as  he.  My  father  killed 
his  uncle,  and  they  wished  to  kill  me,"  he  said 
calmly,  looking  from  beneath  his  joined  eye- 
brows straight  into  Loris-Melikov 's  face. 
"Then  I  asked  them  to  adopt  me  as  a  brother." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'adopt  as  a 
brother?'  " 

"I  did  not  shave  my  head  nor  cut  my  nails 
for  two  months,  and  then  I  came  to  them.  They 
let  me  in  to  Patimat,  his  mother,  and  she  gave 
me  the  breast  and  I  became  his  brother." 

Hadji  Murad 's  voice  could  be  heard  from 
the  next  room,  and  Eldar,  immediately  answer- 
ing his  call,  promptly  wiped  his  hands  and  went 
with  large  strides  into  the  drawing-room. 

"He  asks  thee  to  come,"  said  he,  coming 
back. 

Loris-Melikov  gave  another  cigarette  to  the 
merry  Khan  Malioma,  and  went  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. 


XIII 

When  Loris-Melikov  entered  the  drawing- 
room,  Hadji  Murad  received  him  with  a  liriglit 
face. 

''Well,  shall  I  continue?"  he  asked,  sitting 
down  comfortably  on  the  divan. 

''Yes,  certainly,"  said  Loris-Melikov.  "I 
have  been  in  to  have  a  talk  with  thy  hench- 
men.    .     .     .     One  is  a  jolly  fellow!"  he  added. 

"Yes,  Khan  Mahomd  is  a  frivolous  fellow," 
said  Hadji  Murad. 

"I  liked  the  young  handsome  one." 

"Ah,  that's  Eldar.  He's  young,  but  firm — 
made  of  iron!" 

They  were  silent  for  a  while. 

"So  I  am  to  go  onl" 

"Yes,  yes!" 

"I  told  thee  how  the  Khans  were  killed. 
.  .  .  Well,  having  killed  them,  Hamzad 
rode  into  Khunzakh  and  took  up  his  quarters 
in  their  palace.     The  Khansha  was  the  only  one 

U.5 


146  HADJI    MUR  AD 

of  the  family  left  alive.  Hamzad  sent  for  her. 
She  reproached  him,  so  he  winked  to  his  murid, 
Aseldar,  who  struck  her  from  behind  and 
killed  her." 

"Why  did  he  kill  her  "  asked  Loris-Melikov. 

"What  could  he  do?  .  .  .  AVhere  the  fore 
legs  have  gone,  the  hind  legs  must  follow!  He 
killed  off  the  whole  family.  Shamil  killed  the 
youngest  son — threw  him  over  a  preci- 
pice.    .     .     . 

"Then  the  whole  of  Avaria  surrendered  to 
Hamzad.  But  my  brother  and  I  would  not  sur- 
render. We  wanted  his  blood  for  the  blood  of 
the  Khans.  We  pretended  to  yield,  but  our 
only  thought  was  how  to  get  his  blood.  We 
consulted  our  grandfather,  and  decided  to  await 
the  time  when  he  would  come  out  of  his  palace, 
and  then  to  kill  him  from  an  ambush.  Some 
one  overheard  us  and  told  Hamzad,  who  sent 
for  grandfather,  and  said,  'Mind,  if  it  be  true 
that  thy  grandsons  ar?  planning  evil  against 
me,  thou  and  they  shall  hang  from  one 
rafter.  I  do  God's  work,  and  cannot  be  hin- 
dered. .  .  .  Go,  and  remember  what  I  have 
said ! ' 


HADJI   MUK  AD  147 

"Our  grandfatlier  came  liome  and  told  us. 

''T]ien  we  decided  not  to  wait,  but  to  do  the 
deed  on  the  first  day  of  the  feast  in  the  mosque. 
Our  comrades  would  not  take  part  in  it,  but  my 
brother  and  I  remained  firm. 

"We  took  two  pistols  each,  put  on  our 
hurJcas,  and  went  to  the  mosque.  Hamzad  en- 
tered the  mosque  with  thirty  murids.  They 
all  had  drawn  swords  in  their  hands.  Aseldar, 
his  favourite  murid  (the  one  who  liad  cut  off 
the  head  of  the  Khansha)  saw  us,  shouted  to 
us  to  take  off  our  hufl-as,  and  came  towards 
me.  I  had  my  dagger  in  my  hand,  and  I  killed 
him  with  it  and  rushed  at  Plamzad;  but  my 
brother  Osman  had  already  shot  him.  He  was 
still  alive,  and  rushed  at  my  brother  dagger 
in  hand,  but  I  gave  him  a  finishing  blow  on  the 
head.  There  were  thirty  murids,  and  we  were 
only  two.  They  killed  my  brother  Osman,  but 
I  kept  them  at  bay,  leapt  through  the  window, 
and  escaped. 

"When  it  was  known  that  Hamzad  had  been 
killed,  all  the  people  rose.  The  murids  fled; 
and  those  of  them  who  did  not  flee  were  killed." 

Hadji  Murad  paused,  and  breathed  heavily. 


148  HADJI   MURAD 

''That  was  all  very  well,"  he  continued,  "but 
afterwards  everything  was  spoilt. 

''Shamil  succeeded  .Hamzad.  He  sent  en- 
voys to  me  to  say  that  I  should  join  him  in 
attacking  the  Russians,  and  that  if  I  refused 
he  would  destroy  Khunzakh  and  kill  me. 

''I  answered  that  I  would  not  join  him,  and 
would  not  let  him  come  to  me.     .     .     ." 

''Why  didst  thou  not  go  with  him?"  asked 
Loris-Melikov. 

Hadji  Murad  frowned,  and  did  not  reply  at 
once. 

"I  could  not.  The  blood  of  my  brother  Os- 
man  and  of  Abu  Nutsal  Khan  was  on  his  hands. 
I  did  not  go  to  him.  General  Rosen  sent  me 
an  officer's  commission,  and  ordered  me  to  gov- 
ern Avaria.  All  this  would  have  been  well,  but 
that  Rosen  appointed  as  Khan  of  Kazi- 
Kumukh,  first  Mahomet-Murza,  and  afterwards 
Akhmet  Khan,  who  hated  me.  He  had  been 
trying  to  get  the  Khansha's  daughter,  Sultan- 
etta,  in  marriage  for  his  son,  but  she  would  not 
give  her  to  him,  and  he  believed  me  to  be  the 
cause  of  this.  .  .  .  Yes,  Akhmet  Khan 
hated  me  and  sent  his  henchmen  to  kill  me,  but 


HADJI   MUR  AD  149 

I  escaped  from  them.  Then  he  calumniated 
me  to  General  Kliigenau.  He  said  that  I  told 
the  Avars  not  to  supply  wood  to  the  Russian 
soldiers ;  and  he  also  said  that  I  had  donned  a 
turhan— this  one — "  and  Hadji  Murad  touched 
his  turban —  ''and  that  this  meant  that  I  had 
gone  over  to  Shamil.  The  General  did  not  be- 
lieve him,  and  gave  orders  that  I  should  not 
be  touched.  But  when  the  General  went  to 
Tiflis,  Akhmet  Khan  did  as  he  pleased.  He 
sent  a  company  of  soldiers  to  seize  me,  put  me 
in  chains,  and  tied  me  to  a  cannon. 

''So  they  kept  me  six  days,"  he  continued. 
"On  the  seventh  day  they  untied  me  and  started 
to  take  me  to  Temir-Khan-Shura.  Forty 
soldiers  with  loaded  guns  had  me  in  charge. 
My  hands  were  tied,  and  I  knew  that  they  had 
orders  to  kill  me  if  I  tried  to  escape. 

"As  we  approached  Mansooha  the  path  be- 
came narrow,  and  on  the  right  was  an  abyss 
about  a  hundred  and  twenty  yards  deep.  I 
went  to  the  right — to  the  very  edge.  A  soldier 
wanted  to  stop  me,  but  I  jumped  down  and 
pulled  him  with  me.  He  was  killed  outright, 
but  I,  as  you  see,  remained  alive. 


150  H  A  D  J  I    M  IT  R  A  D 

**Ribs,  head,  arms,  and  leg — all  were  broken! 
I  tried  to  crawl,  but  grew  giddy  and  fell  asleep. 
I  awoke,  wet  with  blood.  A  shepherd  saw  me, 
and  called  some  people  who  carried  me  to  an 
aoul.  My  ribs  and  head  healed,  and  my  leg  too, 
only  it  has  remained  short,"  and  Hadji  Murad 
stretched  out  his  crooked  leg.  ''It  still  serves 
me,  however,  and  that  is  well,"  said  he. 

"The  people  heard  the  news,  and  began  com- 
ing to  me.  I  recovered,  and  went  to  Tselmess. 
The  Avars  again  called  on  me  to  rule  over 
them,"  said  Hadji  jMurad,  with  tranquil,  con- 
fident pride,  "and  I  agreed." 

He  quickly  rose,  and  taking  a  portfolio  out 
of  a  saddle-bag,  drew  out  two  discoloured  let- 
ters and  handed  one  of  them  to  Loris-Melikov. 
They  were  from  General  Kliigenau.  Loris- 
Melikov  read  the  first  letter,  which  was  as  fol- 
lows,— 

"Lieutenant  Hadji  Murad,  thou  hast  served 
under  me,  and  I  was  satisfied  with  thee,  and 
considered  thee  a  good  man. 

"Recently  Akhmet  Khan  informed  me  that 
thou  art  a  traitor,  that  thou  hast  donned  a  tur- 
ban, and  hast  intercourse  with  Shamil,  and  that 


HADJI   M  UK  AD  151 

thou  hast  taught  the  people  to  disobey  the  Rus- 
sian Government.  I  ordered  thee  to  be  ar- 
rested and  brought  liefore  me,  but  thou  fledst. 
I  do  not  know  whether  this  is  for  tliy  good  or 
not,  as  I  do  not  know  whether  thou  art  guilty  or 
not. 

"Now  hear  me.  If  thy  conscience  is  pure,  if 
thou  art  not  guilty  in  anything  towards  the 
great  Tsar,  come  to  me;  fear  no  one.  I  am  thy 
defender.  The  Khan  can  do  nothing  to  thee; 
he  is  himself  under  my  command,  so  thou  hast 
nothing  to  fear." 

Kliigenau  added  that  he  always  kept  his 
word  and  was  just,  and  he  again  exhorted 
Hadji  Murad  to  appear  before  him. 

When  Loris-Melikov  had  read  this  letter, 
Hadji  Murad,  before  handing  him  the  second 
one,  told  him  what  he  had  written  in  reply  to 
the  first. 

"I  wrote  that  I  wore  a  turban,  not  for  Sha- 
mil's  sake,  l)ut  for  my  soul's  salvation;  that  I 
neither  wished  nor  could  go  over  to  Shamil,  be- 
cause he  was  the  cause  of  my  father's,  my 
brothers',  and  my  relations'  deaths;  but  that  I 
could  not  join  the  Russians  because  I  had  been 


152  HADJI   MURAD 

dishonoured  by  them.  (In  Khunzakh,  while  I 
was  bound,  a  scoundrel  sh —  on  me ;  and  I  could 
not  join  your  people  until  that  man  was  killed.) 
But,  above  all,  I  feared  that  liar,  Akhmet  Khan. 

"Then  the  General  sent  me  this  letter,"  said 
Hadji  Murad,  handing  Loris-Melikov  the  other 
discoloured  paper. 

"Thou  hast  answered  my  first  letter,  and  I 
thank  thee,"  read  Loris-Melikov,  "Thou 
writest  that  thou  art  not  afraid  to  return,  but 
that  the  insult  done  thee  by  a  certain  Giaour 
prevents  it;  but  I  assure  thee  that  the  Russian 
law  is  just,  and  that  thou  shalt  see  him  who 
dared  to  offend  thee  punished  before  thine  eyes. 
I  have  already  given  orders  to  investigate  the 
matter. 

"Hear  me,  Hadji  Murad!  I  have  a  right  to 
be  displeased  with  thee  for  not  trusting  me  and 
my  honour ;  but  I  forgive  thee,  for  I  know  how 
suspicious  mountaineers  are  in  general.  If  thy 
conscience  is  pure,  if  thou  hast  put  on  a  turban 
only  for  thy  soul's  salvation,  then  thou  art 
right,  and  mayst  look  me  and  the  Russian  Gov- 
ernment boldly  in  the  eyes.  He  who  dishon- 
oured thee  shall,  I  assure  thee,  be  punished; 


HADJI   MURAD  153 

and  thy  property  shall  he  restored  to  thee,  and 
thou  shalt  see  and  know  what  Russian  law  is. 
And  besides,  we  Russians  look  at  things  dif- 
ferently, and  thou  has  not  sunk  in  our  eyes  be- 
cause some  scoundrel  has  dishonoured  thee. 

*'I  myself  have  consented  to  the  Chimrints 
wearing  turbans;  and  I  regard  their  actions  in 
the  right  light;  and  therefore  I  repeat  that 
thou  hast  nothing  to  fear.  Come  to  me  with 
the  man  by  whom  I  am  sending  thee  this  let- 
ter. He  is  faithful  to  me,  and  is  not  the  slave 
of  thy  enemies  but  is  the  friend  of  a  man  who 
enjoys  the  special  favour  of  the  Government." 

Further  on  Kliigenau  again  tried  to  persuade 
Hadji  Murad  to  come  over  to  him. 

"I  did  not  believe  him,"  said  Hadji  Murad 
when  Loris-Melikov  had  finished  reading,  "and 
did  not  go  to  Kliigenau.  The  chief  thing  for 
me  was  to  revenge  myself  on  Akhmet  Khan; 
and  that  I  could  not  do  through  the  Russians. 
Then  Akhmet  Khan  surrounded  Tselmess,  and 
wanted  to  take  me  or  kill  me.  I  had  too  few 
men,  and  could  not  drive  him  off;  and  just  then 
came  an  envoy  with  a  letter  from  Shamil, 
promising  to  help  me  to  defeat  and  kill  Akhmet 


154  HADJI    MUR  AD 

Khan,  and  making  me  ruler  over  the  whole  of 
Avaria.  I  considered  the  matter  for  a  long 
time,  and  then  went  over  to  Shamil ;  and  from 
that  time  have  fought  the  Russians  continu- 
ally." 

Here  Hadji  Murad  related  all  liis  military 
exploits,  of  which  there  were  very  many,  and 
some  of  which  were  already  familiar  to  Loris- 
Melikov.  All  his  campaigns  and  raids  had  been 
remarkable  for  the  extraordinary  rapidity  of 
his  movements  and  the  boldness  of  his  attacks, 
which  were  alwa3^s  crowned  with  success. 

''There  never  was  any  friendship  between 
me  and  Shamil,"  said  Hadji  Munid  at  the  end 
of  his  story,  "but  he  feared  me  and  needed 
me.  But  it  so  happened  that  I  was  asked  who 
should  be  Imfim  after  Shamil,  and  I  replied: 
'He  will  be  Imam  whose  sword  is  sharpest!' 

"This  was  told  to  Shamil,  and  he  wanted  to 
get  rid  of  me.  He  sent  me  into  Tabasaran.  I 
went,  and  captured  a  thousand  sheep  and  three 
hundred  horses;  but  he  said  I  had  not  done 
the  right  thing,  and  dismissed  me  from  being 
Nail),  and  ordered  me  to  send  him  all  the  money. 
I  sent  him  a  thousand  gold  pieces.     He  sent  his 


HADJI    MURAD  155 

murids,  and  they  took  from  me  all  my  property, 
lie  demanded  that  I  shonJd  go  to  him;  but  I 
knew  he  wanted  to  kill  me,  and  I  did  not  go. 
Then  he  sent  to  take  me.  I  resisted,  and  went 
over  to  Vorontsov.  Only  I  did  not  take  my 
family.  My  mother,  my  wives,  and  my  son  are 
in  his  liands.  Tell  the  Sirdar  that  as  long  as 
my  family  is  in  Shamil's  power,  I  can  do  noth- 
ing. ' ' 

''I  will  tell  him,"  said  Loris-Melikov. 

''Take  pains,  do  try!  .  .  .  What  is  mine 
is  thine,  only  help  me  with  the  Prince!  I  am 
tied  up,  and  the  end  of  the  rope  is  in  Shamil's 
hands,"  said  Hadji  Murad,  concluding  his 
story. 


XIV 

On  20th  December  Vorontsov  wrote  as  fol- 
lows to  Chernysliov,  tlie  Minister  of  War. 
The  letter  was  in  French, — 

''I  did  not  write  to  you  by  the  last  post,  dear 
Prince,  as  I  wished  first  to  decide  what  we 
should  do  with  Hadji  Murad,  and  for  the  last 
two  or  three  days  I  have  not  been  feeling  quite 
well. 

''In  my  last  letter  I  informed  you  of  Hadji 
Mur^d's  arrival  here.  He  reached  Tifiis  on  the 
8th,  and  next  day  I  made  his  acquaintance ;  and 
during"  the  following  seven  or  eight  days  I  have 
spoken  to  him  and  have  considered  what  use 
we  can  make  of  him  in  the  future,  and  espe- 
cially what  we  are  to  do  with  him  at  present; 
for  he  is  much  concerned  about  the  fate  of  his 
family,  and  with  every  appearance  of  perfect 
frankness  says  that  while  they  are  in  Shamil's 
hands  he  is  paralysed  and  cannot  render  us  any 

service,  nor  show  his  gratitude  for  the  friendly 

1  r,6 


HADJI   MURAD  157 

reception   and  forgiveness  we  have   extended 
to  him. 

"His  uncertainty  ahout  those  dear  to  him 
makes  him  feverish ;  and  the  persons  I  have 
appointed  to  live  with  him  assure  me  that  he 
does  not  sleep  at  night,  hardly  eats  anything, 
prays  continually,  and  asks  only  to  be  allowed 
to  ride  out  accompanied  by  several  Cossacks — 
the  sole  recreation  and  exercise  possible  for 
him,  and  made  necessary  to  him  by  lifelong 
habit.  Every  day  he  comes  to  me  to  know 
whether  I  have  any  news  of  his  family,  and  to 
ask  me  to  have  all  the  prisoners  in  our  hands 
collected  and  offered  to  Shamil  in  exchange  for 
them.  He  would  also  give  a  little  money. 
There  are  people  who  would  let  him  have  some 
for  the  purpose.  He  keeps  repeating  to  me: 
'Save  my  family,  and  then  give  me  a  chance  to 
serve  you'  (preferably,  in  his  opinion,  on  the 
Lesghiau  line)  'and  if  within  a  month  I  do  not 
render  you  great  seiwice,  punish  me  as  you 
think  fit.'  I  reply  that  to  me  all  this  appears 
very  just;  and  that  many  persons  among  us 
would  even  not  trust  him  so  long  as  his  family 
remains  in  the  mountains  and  are  not  in  our 


158  HADJI   MUEAD 

hands  as  hostages;  and  that  I  will  do  every- 
thing possible  to  collect  the  prisoners  on  our 
frontier;  that  I  have  no  power  under  our  laws 
to  give  him  monev  for  the  ransom  of  his  familv 
in  addition  to  the  sum  he  mav  himself  be  able 
to  raise,  but  that  I  may  perhaps  find  some 
other  means  of  heli)ing  him.  After  that  I  told 
him  frankly  that  in  my  opinion  Shamil  would 
not  in  any  case  give  up  the  family,  and  that 
Shamil  might  tell  him  so  straight  out  and 
promise  him  a  full  pardon  and  his  former  posts, 
but  threaten,  if  liadji  Munid  did  not  return,  to 
kill  his  mother,  wives,  and  six  ''hildren;  and  I 
asked  liiiii  whether  he  could  say  frankly  what 
he  would  do  if  he  received  such  an  announce- 
ment from  Shamil.  Hadji  Mui'ad  lifted  his 
eyes  and  arms  to  heaven,  and  said  that  every- 
thing is  in  God's  hands,  but  that  he  would  never 
surrender  to  his  foe;  for  he  is  certain  Shamil 
would  not  forgive  him,  and  he  would  therefore 
not  have  long  to  live.  As  to  the  destruction  of 
.  his  family,  he  did  not  think  Shamil  would  act 
so  rashly:  firstly,  to  avoid  making  him  a  3^et 
more  desperate  and  dangerous  foe;  and 
secondly,  because  there  were  many  people,  and 


Hx\DJI    MTJRAD  159 

even  very  influeiitial  people,  in  Dagiiestan,  who 
would  dissuade  Sliamil  from  sncli  a  course. 
Finally,  he  re]ieated  several  times  that  what- 
ever God  might  decree  for  him  in  the  future, 
he  was  at  present  interested  in  nothing  hut  his 
family's  ransom;  and  he  im])lored  me,  in  God's 
name,  to  help  him,  and  to  allow  him  to  return 
to  the  neighhourhood  of  the  Chechnya,  where 
he  could,  with  the  help  and  consent  of  our  com- 
manders, have  some  intercourse  with  his  family, 
and  regular  news  of  their  condition,  and  of  the 
best  means  to  liberate  them.  He  said  that 
many  people,  and  even  some  Ndibs  in  that  part 
of  the  enemy's  territory,  were  more  or  less 
attached  to  him;  and  that  among  the  whole  oi 
the  population  already  subjugated  by  Russia, 
or  neutral,  it  would  be  easy  with  our  help  to 
establish  relations  very  useful  for  the  attaim 
ment  of  the  aim  which  gives  him  no  peace  day 
or  night,  and  the  attainment  of  which  would 
set  him  at  ease  and  make  it  possible  for  him  to 
act  for  our  good  and  to  win  our  confidence. 

''He  asks  to  be  sent  back  to  Grozny  with  a 
convoy  of  twenty  or  thirty  picked  Cossacks, 
who  would  serve  him  as  a  protection  against 


160  HADJI   MUR  AD 


foes  and  us  as  a  guarantee  of  his  good  faith. 
''You  will  understand,  dear  Prince,  that  I 
have  been  much  perplexed  by  all  this ;  for,  do 
what  I  will,  a  great  responsibility  rests  on  me. 
It  would  be  in  the  highest  degree  rash  to  trust 
him  entirely ;  yet  in  order  to  deprive  him  of  all 
means  of  escape  we  should  have  to  lock  him  up, 
and  in  my  opinion  that  would  be  both  unjust 
and  impolitic.  A  measure  of  that  kind,  the 
news  of  which  would  soon  spread  over  the 
whole  of  Daghestan,  would  do  us  great  harm 
by  keeping  back  those  (and  there  are  many 
such)  who  are  now  inclined  more  or  less  openly 
to  oppose  Shamil,  and  who  are  keenly  watching 
to  see  how  we  treat  the  Imam's  bravest  and 
most  adventurous  officer,  now  that  he  has  found 
himself  obliged  to  place  himself  in  our  hands. 
If  we  treat  Hadji  Murad  as  a  prisoner,  all  the 
good  effect  of  the  situation  will  be  lost.  There- 
fore I  think  that  I  could  not  act  otherwise  than 
as  I  have  done,  though  at  the  same  time  I  feel 
that  I  may  be  accused  of  having  made  a  great 
mistake  if  Hadji  Murad  should  take  it  into  his 
head  again  to  escape.  In  the  service,  and  espe- 
cially in  a  complicated  situation  such  as  this, 


HADJI   MURAD  161 

it  is  difficult,  not  to  say  impossible,  to  follow 
any  one  straight  path  without  risking  mistakes, 
and  without  accepting  responsibility;  but  once 
a  path  seems  to  be  the  right  one,  I  must  follow 
it,  happen  what  may. 

''I  beg  of  you,  dear  Prince,  to  submit  this  to 
his  Majesty  the  Emperor  for  his  consideration ; 
and  I  shall  be  happy  if  it  pleases  our  most 
august  monarch  to  approve  my  action. 

''All  that  I  have  written  above,  I  have  also 
written  to  Generals  Zavodovsky  and  Kozlovsky, 
to  guide  the  latter  when  communicating  direct 
with  Hadji  Murad,  whom  I  have  warned  not  to 
act  or  go  anywhere  without  Kozlovsky 's  con- 
sent. I  also  told  him  that  it  would  be  all  the 
better  for  us  if  he  rode  out  with  our  convoy, 
as  otherwise  Shamil  might  spread  a  rumour 
that  we  were  keeping  him  prisoner ;  but  at  the 
same  time  I  made  him  promise  never  to  go  to 
Vozdvizhensk,  because  my  son,  to  whom  he  first 
surrendered  and  whom  he  looks  upon  as  his 
kiindk  (friend),  is  not  the  commander  of  that 
place,  and  some  unpleasant  misunderstanding 
might  easily  arise.  In  any  case,  Vozdvizhensk 
lies  too  near  a  thickly  populated,  hostile  settle- 


162  HADJI    MUE  AD 

ment ;  while  for  the  intercourse  with  his  friends 
which  he  desires,  Grozny  is  in  all  respects  suit- 
able. 

''Besides  the  twenty  chosen  Cossacks  who,  at 
Ms  own  request,  are  to  keep  close  to  him,  I  am 
also  sending  Captain  Loris-Melikov  with  him — 
a  worthy  excellent  and  highly-intelligent  officer 
who  speaks  Tartar,  and  knows  Hadji  Murad 
well,  and  apparently  enjoys  his  full  confidence. 
During  the  ten  days  Hadji  Murad  has  spent 
here,  he  has,  however,  lived  in  the  same  house 
with  Lieutenant-Colonel  Prince  Tarkhanof,  who 
is  in  command  of  the  Shoushin  District,  and  is 
here  on  business  connected  with  the   service. 
He  is  a  truly  worthy  man  whom  I  trust  entirely. 
He  also  has  won  Hadji  Murad 's  confidence,  and 
through  him  alone — as  he  speaks  Tartar  per- 
fectly— we  have  discussed  the  most  delicate  and 
secret  matters.     I  have   consulted   Tarkhanof 
about  Hadji  Murad,  and  he  fully  agrees  with  me 
that  it  was  necessary  either  to  act  as  I  have 
done,  or  to  put  Hadji  Murad  in  prison  and 
guard  him  in  the  strictest  manner   (for  if  we 
once  treat  him  badly,  he  will  not  be  easy  to 
hold),  or  else  to  remove  him  from  the  country 


HADJI   MURAD  163 

altogether.  But  these  two  last  measures 
would  not  only  destroy  all  the  advantage  accru- 
ing to  us  from  Hadji  Murad's  quarrel  with  Sha- 
mil,  hut  would  inevitahly  check  any  growth  of 
the  present  insubordination  and  possible  future 
revolt  of  the  people  against  Shamil's  power. 
Prince  Tarkhanof  tells  me  he  himself  has  no 
doubt  of  Hadji  Murad's  truthfulness,  and  that 
Hadji  Murad  is  convinced  that  Shamil  will 
never  forgive  him,  but  would  have  him  executed 
in  spite  of  any  promise  of  forgiveness.  The 
only  thing  Tarkhanof  has  noticed  in  his  inter- 
course with  Hadji  Murad  that  might  cause  any 
anxiety,  is  his  attachment  to  his  religion. 
Tarkhanof  does  not  deny  that  Shamil  might 
influence  Hadji  Murad  from  that  side.  But  as 
I  have  already  said,  he  will  never  persuade 
Hadji  Munid  that  he  will  not  take  his  life 
sooner  or  later,  should  the  latter  return  to  him. 
"This,  dear  Prince,  is  all  I  have  to  tell  you 
about  this  episode  in  our  affairs  here." 


XV 

The  report  was  despatched  from  Tiflis  on  24th 
December  1851,  and  on  Xew  Year's  Eve  a 
courier,  having  overdriven  a  dozen  horses  and 
beaten  a  dozen  drivers  till  the  blood  came,  de- 
livered it  to  Prince  Chernvshov,  who  at  that 
time  was  Minister  of  War;  and  on  1st  January 
1852  Chernyshov,  among  other  papers,  took 
Vorontsov's  report  to  the  Emperor  Nicholas. 

Chernyshov  disliked  Vorontsov  because  of 
the  general  respect  in  which  the  latter  was 
held,  and  because  of  his  immense  wealth ;  and 
also  because  Vorontsov  was  a  real  aristocrat, 
while  Chernyshov  after  all  was  a  parvenu;  but 
especially  because  the  Emperor  was  particu- 
larly well  disposed  towards  Vorontsov,  There- 
fore at  every  opportunity  Chernyshov  tried  to 
injure  Vorontsov. 

When  he  had  last  presented  a  report  about 
Caucasian  affairs,  he  had  succeeded  in  arous- 
ing Nicholas's  displeasure  against  Vorontsov 
because — through  the  carelessness  of  those  in 

164 


HADJI   MUR  AD  165 

command — almost  the  whole  of  a  small  Cauca- 
sian detachment  had  been  destroyed  by  the 
mountaineers.  He  now  intended  to  present  the 
steps  taken  by  Vorontsov  in  relation  to  Hadji 
Murad  in  an  unfavourable  light.  He  wished 
to  suggest  to  the  Emperor  that  Vorontsov 
always  protected  and  even  indulged  the  natives, 
to  the  detriment  of  the  Russians;  and  that  he 
had  acted  unwisely  in  allowing  Hadji  Murad 
to  remain  in  the  Caucasus,  for  there  was  every 
reason  to  suspect  that  he  had  only  come  over 
to  spy  on  our  means  of  defence;  and  that  it 
would  therefore  be  better  to  transport  him  to 
Central  Russia,  and  make  use  of  him  only  after 
his  family  had  been  rescued  from  the  mountain- 
eers and  it  had  become  possible  to  convince  our- 
selves of  his  loyalty. 

Chernyshov's  plan  did  not  succeed,  merely  be- 
cause on  that  New  Year's  Day  Nicholas  was  in 
particularly  bad  spirits,  and  out  of  perversity 
would  not  have  accepted  any  suggestion  what- 
ever from  any  one,  and  least  of  all  from 
Chernyshov,  whom  he  only  tolerated — regard- 
ing him  as  indispensable  for  the  time  being,  but 
looking  upon  him  as  a  blackguard ;  for  Nicholas 


166  HADJI    MUR  AD 

knew  of  his  endeavours  at  the  trial  of  the  De- 
cembrists"^ to  secure  the  conviction  of  Zachary 
Chernyshov  and  of  his  attempt  to  obtain 
Zachary 's  property  for  himself.  So,  thanks  to 
Nicholas's  ill  temper,  Hadji  Murad  remained  in 
the  Caucasus;  and  his  circumstances  were  not 
changed  as  they  might  have  been  had  Cherny- 
shov presented  his  report  at  another  time. 

•  •  «  •  • 

It  was  half-past  nine  o'clock  when,  through 
the  mist  of  the  cold  morning  (the  thermometer 
showed  13  degrees  Fahrenheit  below  zero) 
Chernyshov 's  fat,  bearded  coachman,  sitting  on 
the  box  of  a  small  sledge  (like  the  one  Nicholas 
drove  about  in)  with  a  sharp-angled  cushion- 
shaped  azure  velvet  cap  on  his  head,  drew  up 
at  the  entrance  of  the  Winter  Palace,  and  gave 
a  friendly  nod  to  his  chum,  Prince  Dolgoruky's 
coachman — who,  having  brought  his  master  to 
the  palace,  had  himself  long  been  waiting  out- 
side, in  his  big  coat  with  the  thickly  wadded 
skirts,  sitting  on  the  reins  and  rubbing  his 
numbed  hands  together.     Chernyshov  had  on  a 

1  The  military  conspirators  who  tried  to  secure  a  Consti- 
tution for  Russia  in  1S25,  on  the  accession  of  Nicholas  I. 


HADJI   MURAD  167 

long,  large-caped  cloak,  with  a  fluffy  collar  of 
silver  beaver,  and  a  regulation  three-cornered 
liat  with  cocks'  feathers.  He  threw  back  the 
bearskin  apron  of  the  sledge,  and  carefully 
disengaged  his  chilled  feet,  on  which  he  had  no 
goloshes  (he  prided  himself  on  never  wearing 
any).  Clanking  his  spurs  with  an  air  of 
bravado,  he  ascended  the  carpeted  steps  and 
passed  through  the  hall  door,  which  was  re- 
spectfully opened  for  him  by  the  porter,  and 
entered  the  hall.  Having  thrown  off  his  cloak, 
which  an  old  Court  lackey  hurried  forward  to 
take,  he  went  to  a  mirror  and  carefully  removed 
the  hat  from  his  curled  wig.  Looking  at  him- 
self in  the  mirror,  he  arranged  the  hair  on  his 
temples  and  the  tuft  above  his  forehead  with  an 
accustomed  movement  of  his  old  hands,  and 
adjusted  his  cross,  the  shoulder-knots  of  his 
uniform,  and  his  large-initialled  epaulets;  and 
then  went  up  the  gently-ascending  carpeted 
stairs,  his  not  very  reliable  old  legs  feebly 
mounting  the  shallow  steps.  Passing  the  Court 
lackeys  in  gala  livery,  who  stood  obsequiously 
bowing,  Chernyshov  entered  the  waiting-room. 
A  newly  appointed  aide-de-camp  to  the  Em- 


168  HADJI   MURAD 

peror,  in  a  shining  new  uniform,  with  epaulets 
shoulder-knots  and  a  still  fresh  rosy  face,  a 
small  black  moustache,  and  the  hair  on  his 
temples  brushed  towards  his  eyes  (Nicholas's 
fashion)  met  him  respectfully. 

Prince  Vasily  Dolgoruky,  Assistant-Minister 
of  War,  with  an  expression  of  ennui  on  his  dull 
face — which  was  ornamented  with  similar 
whiskers,  moustaches,  and  temple  tufts  brushed 
forward  like  Nicholas 's^greeted  him. 

''L'eni'pereurf"  said  Chernyshov,  addressing 
the  aide-de-camp,  and  looking  inquiringly 
towards  the  door  leading  to  the  cabinet. 

^'  Sa  majeste  vient  de  rentrer,"^  replied  the 
aide-de-camp,  evidently  enjoying  the  sound  of 
his  own  voice,  and,  stepping  so  softly  and 
steadily  that  had  a  tumbler  of  water  been 
placed  on  his  head  none  of  it  would  have  been 
spilt,  he  approached  the  noiselessly  opening- 
door  and,  his  whole  body  evincing  reverence  for 
the  spot  he  was  about  to  visit,  he  disappeared. 

Dolgoruky  meanwhile  opened  his  portfolio  to 
see  that  it  contained  the  necessary  papers, 
while    Chernyshov,    frowning,    paced    up    and 

2  His  majesty  Las  just  returned. 


HADJI   MURAD  169 

down  to  restore  the  circulation  in  his  numbed 
feet,  and  thought  over  what  he  was  about  to 
report  to  the  Emperor.  He  was  near  the  door 
of  the  cabinet  when  it  opened  again,  and  the 
aide-de-camp,  even  more  radiant  and  respectful 
than  before,  came  out  and  with  a  gesture  in- 
vited the  minister  and  his  assistant  to  enter. 

The  Winter  Palace  had  been  rebuilt  after 
the  fire  some  considerable  time  before  this ;  but 
Nicholas  was  still  occupying  rooms  in  the  upper 
story.  The  cabinet  in  which  he  received  the 
reports  of  his  ministers  and  other  high  officials, 
was  a  very  lofty  apartment  with  four  large  win- 
dows. A  big  portrait  of  the  Emperor  Alexan- 
der I  hung  on  the  front  wall.  Between  the  win- 
dows stood  two  bureaux.  By  the  walls  stood 
several  chairs.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  was 
an  enormous  writing-table,  with  an  arm-chair 
before  it  for  Nicholas,  and  other  chairs  for 
those  to  whom  he  gave  audience. 

Nicholas  sat  at  the  table  in  a  black  coat  with 
shoulder-straps  but  no  epaulets,  his  enormous 
body — of  which  the  overgrown  stomach  was 
tightly  laced  in — was  thrown  back,  and  he 
gazed  at  the  newcomers  with  fixed,  lifeless  eyes. 


170  HADJI   MUR  AD 

His  long,  pale  face,  with  its  enormous  receding 
forehead  between  the  tufts  of  hair  which  were 
brushed  forward  and  skilfully  joined  to  the  wig 
that  covered  his  bald  patch,  was  specially  cold 
and  stony  that  day.  His  eyes,  always  dim, 
looked  duller  than  usual;  the  compressed  lips 
under  his  upturned  moustaches,  and  his  fat 
freshly-shaven  cheeks — on  which  symmetrical 
sausage-shaped  bits  of  whiskers  had  been  left — 
supported  by  the  high  collar,  and  his  chin  which 
also  pressed  upon  it,  gave  to  his  face  a  dissatis- 
fied and  even  irate  expression.  The  cause  of 
the  bad  mood  he  was  in  was  fatigue.  The 
fatigue  was  due  to  the  fact  that  he  had  been  to 
a  masquerade  the  night  before,  and  while  walk- 
ing about  as  was  his  wont,  in  his  Horse  Guards' 
uniform  with  a  bird  on  the  helmet,  among  the 
i^ublic  which  crowded  round  and  timidly  made 
way  for  his  enormous,  self-assured  figure,  he 
again  met  the  mask  who  at  the  previous  mas- 
querade, by  her  whiteness,  her  beautiful  figure, 
and  her  tender  voice  had  aroused  his  senile 
sensuality.  She  had  then  disappeared,  after 
promising  to  meet  him  at  the  next  masquerade. 
At  yesterday's  masquerade  she  had  come  up 


HADJI   MUR AD  171 

to  him,  and  he  had  not  let  her  go  again,  but  had 
led  her  to  the  box  specially  kept  ready  for  that 
purpose,  where  he  could  be  alone  with  her. 
Having  arrived  in  silence  at  the  door  of  the  box, 
Nicholas  looked  round  to  find  the  attendant,  but 
he  was  not  there.  Nicholas  frowned,  and 
pushed  the  door  open  himself,  letting  the  lady 
enter  first. 

"II  y  a  quelqu'un!"  ^  said  the  mask,  stopping 
short. 

The  box  actually  was  occupied.  On  the  small 
velvet-covered  sofa  sat,  close  together,  an  Uhlan 
officer  and  a  pretty,  curly-haired,  fair  young- 
woman  in  a  domino,  who  had  removed  her  mask. 
On  catching  sight  of  the  angry  figure  of  Nicho- 
las, drawn  up  to  its  full  height,  the  fair-haired 
woman  quickly  covered  her  face  with  her  mask ; 
but  the  Uhlan  officer,  rigid  with  fear,  without 
rising  from  the  sofa,  gazed  at  Nicholas  with 
fixed  eyes. 

Used  as  he  was  to  the  terror  he  inspired  in 
people,  that  terror  always  pleased  Nicholas, 
and  by  way  of  contrast  he  sometimes  liked  to 
astound  those  who  were  plunged  in  terror  by 

3  There's  some  one  tbere  ! 


172  HADJI   MUR  AD 

addressing  kindly  words  to  them.     He  did  so 
on  this  occasion. 

"Well,  friend!"  said  he  to  the  officer,  rigid 
with  fear,  "you  are  younger  than  I,  and  might 
give  up  your  place  to  me." 

The  officer  jumped  to  his  feet,  and  growing 
pale  and  then  red  and  bending  almost  double, 
he  followed  his  partner  silentl}^  out  of  the  box, 
and  Nicholas  remained  alone  with  his  lady. 

She  proved  to  be  a  pretty,  twenty-year  old 
virgin,  the  daughter  of  a  Swedish  governess. 
She  told  Nicholas  how,  when  quite  a  child,  she 
had  fallen  in  love  with  him  from  his  portraits ; 
how  she  adored  him,  and  made  up  her  mind  to 
attract  his  attention  at  any  cost.  Now  she  had 
succeeded,  and  wanted  nothing  more — so  she 
said. 

The  girl  was  taken  to  the  place  where  Nicho- 
las usually  had  rendezvous  with  women,  and 
there  he  spent  more  than  an  hour  with  her. 

When  he  returned  to  his  room  that  night  and 
lay  on  the  hard  narrow  bed  about  which  he 
prided  himself,  and  covered  himself  with  the 
cloak  which  he  considered  to  be  (and  spoke  of 
as  being)  as  famous  as  Napoleon's  hat,  it  was 


HADJI   MUK  AD  173 

long  before  he  could  fall  asleep.  He  thought 
now  of  the  frightened  and  elated  expression  on 
that  girl's  fair  face,  and  now  of  the  full,  power- 
ful shoulders  of  his  regular  mistress,  Nelidova, 
and  he  compared  the  two.  That  profligacy  in 
a  married  man  was  a  bad  thing  did  not  once 
enter  his  head;  and  he  would  have  been  greatly 
surprised  had  any  one  censured  him  for  it. 
Yet,  though  convinced  that  he  had  acted 
properly,  some  kind  of  unpleasant  after-taste 
remained  behind,  and  to  stifle  that  feeling  he 
began  to  dwell  on  a  thought  that  always  tran- 
quil lised  him — the  thought  of  his  own  greatness. 

Though  he  fell  asleep  very  late,  he  rose  be- 
fore eight,  and  after  attending  to  his  toilet  in 
the  usual  way — rubbing  his  big  well-fed  bodjr 
all  over  with  ice — and  saying  his  prayers  (re- 
peating those  he  had  been  used  to  from  child- 
hood— the  prayer  to  the  Virgin,  the  Apostles' 
Creed,  and  the  Lord's  Prayer,  without  attach- 
ing any  kind  of  meaning  to  the  words  he 
uttered),  he  went  out  through  the  smaller 
portico  of  the  palace  on  to  the  embankment, 
in  his  military  cloak  and  cap. 

On  the  embankment  he  met  a  student  in  the 


174  HADJI   MURAD 

uniform  of  the  School  of  Jurisprudence,  who 
was  as  enormous  as  himself.  On  recognising 
the  uniform  of  that  School,  which  he  disliked 
for  its  freedom  of  thought,  Nicholas  frowned; 
but  the  stature  of  the  student,  and  the  painstak- 
ing manner  in  which  he  drew  himself  up  and 
saluted,  ostentatiously  sticking  out  his  elbow, 
mollified  Nicholas's  displeasure. 

''Your  name?"  said  he. 

"Polosatov,  your  Imperial  Majesty." 

*'     .     .     .     fine  fellow!" 

The  student  continued  to  stand  with  his  hand 
lifted  to  his  hat. 

Nicholas  stopped. 

''Do  you  wish  to  enter  the  army*?" 
*   "Not  at  all,  your  Imperial  Majesty." 

"Blockhead!"  And  Nicholas  turned  away 
and  continued  his  walk,  and  began  uttering 
aloud  the  first  words  that  came  into  his  head. 

"Kopervine  .  .  .  Kopervine — "  he  re- 
peated several  times  (it  was  the  name  of  yes- 
terday's girl).  "Horrid  .  .  .  horrid — " 
He  did  not  think  what  he  said,  but  stifled  his 
feelings  by  listening  to  it. 

"Yes,  what  would  Russia  do  without  me?" 


HADJI   MURAD  175 

said  he,  feeling  his  former  dissatisfaction  re- 
turning; "yes,  what  would — not  Russia  alone, 
but  Europe  be,  without  me?"  and  calling  to 
mind  the  weakness  and  stupidity  of  his  brother- 
in-law,  the  King  of  Prussia,  he  shook  his  head. 

As  he  was  returning  to  the  small  portico,  he 
saw  the  carriage  of  Helena  Pavlovna,^  with  a 
red-liveried  footman,  approaching  the  Saltykov 
entrance  of  the  palace. 

Helena  Pavlovna  was  to  him  the  personifi- 
cation of  that  futile  class  of  people  who  dis- 
cussed not  merely  science  and  poetry,  but  even 
the  ways  of  governing  men :  imagining  that  they 
could  govern  themselves  better  than  he,  Nicho- 
las, governed  them!  He  knew  that  however 
much  he  crushed  such  people,  they  reappeared 
again  and  again;  and  he  recalled  his  brother, 
Michael  Pavlovich,  who  had  died  not  long  be- 
fore. A  feeling  of  sadness  and  vexation  came 
over  him,  and  with  a  dark  frown  he  again  be- 
gan whispering  the  first  words  that  came  into 
his  head.  He  only  ceased  doing  this  when  he 
re-entered  the  palace. 

*  Widow  of  Nicholas's  brother  Michael :  a  clever,  well- 
educated  woman,  interested  in  science,  art,  and  public  af- 
fairs. 


176  HADJI   MURAD 

On  reaching  his  apartments  he  smoothed  his 
whiskers  and  the  hair  on  his  temples  and  the 
wig  on  his  bald  patch,  and  twisted  his 
moustaches  upwards  in  front  of  the  mirror; 
and  then  went  straight  to  the  cabinet  in  which 
he  received  reports. 

He  first  received  Chernyshov,  who  at  once 
saw  by  his  face,  and  especially  by  his  eyes,  that 
Nicholas  was  in  a  particularly  bad  humour  that 
day;  and  knowing  about  the  adventure  of  the 
night  before,  he  understood  the  cause.  Having 
coldly  greeted  Chernyshov  and  invited  him  to 
sit  down,  Nicholas  fixed  on  him  a  lifeless  gaze. 
The  first  matter  Chernyshov  reported  upon  was 
a  case,  which  had  just  been  discovered,  of  em- 
bezzlement by  commissariat  officials;  the  next 
was  the  movement  of  troops  on  the  Prussian 
frontier;  then  came  a  list  of  rewards  to  be 
given  at  the  New  Year  to  some  people  omitted 
from  a  former  list;  then  Vorontsov's  report 
about  Hadji  Murad;  and  lastly  some  unpleas- 
ant business  concerning  an  attempt  by  a  stu- 
dent of  the  Academy  of  Medicine  on  the  life 
of  a  professor. 

Nicholas  heard  the  report  of  the  embezzle- 


HADJI   MUR AD  177 

ment  silently,  with  compressed  lips,  his  large 
white  hand — with  one  ring  on  the  fourth  finger 
— stroking  some  sheets  of  paper,  and  his  eyes 
steadily  fixed  on  Chernyshov  's  forehead  and  on 
the  tuft  of  hair  above  it. 

Nicholas  was  convinced  that  everybody  stole. 
He  knew  he  would  have  to  punish  the  commis- 
sariat officials  now,  and  decided  to  send  them 
all  to  serve  in  the  ranks;  but  he  also  knew  that 
this  would  not  prevent  those  who  succeeded 
them  from  acting  in  the  same  way.  It  was  a 
characteristic  of  officials  to  steal,  and  it  was  his 
duty  to  punish  them  for  doing  so ;  and  tired  as 
he  was  of  that  duty  he  conscientiously  per- 
formed it. 

''It  seems  there  is  only  one  honest  man  in 
Russia!"  said  he. 

Chernyshov  at  once  understood  that  this  one 
honest  man  was  Nicholas  himself,  and  smiled 
approvingly. 

"It  looks  Tike  it,  your  Imperial  Majesty," 
said  he. 

''Leave  it — I  will  give  a  decision,"  said 
Nicholas,  taking  the  document  and  putting  it  on 
the  left  side  of  the  table. 


178  HADJI   MURAD 

Then  Chernyshov  reported  about  the  re- 
wards to  be  given,  and  about  moving  the  army 
on  the  Prussian  frontier. 

Nicholas  looked  over  the  list  and  struck  out 
some  names;  and  then  briefly  and  firmly  gave 
orders  to  move  two  divisions  to  the  Prussian 
frontier.  Nicholas  could  not  forgive  the  King 
of  Prussia  for  granting  a  Constitution  to  his 
people  after  the  events  of  1848,  and  therefore, 
while  expressing  most  friendly  feelings  to  his 
brother-in-law  in  letters  and  conversation,  he 
considered  it  necessary  to  keep  an  army  near 
the  frontier  in  case  of  need.  He  might  want  to 
use  these  troops  to  defend  his  brother-in-law's 
throne  if  the  people  of  Prussia  rebelled  (Nicho- 
las saw  a  readiness  for  rebellion  everywhere) 
as  he  had  used  troops  to  suppress  the  rising  in 
Hungary  a  few  years  previously.  Another 
reason  why  troops  were  wanted,  was  to  give 
more  weight  and  influence  to  the  advice  he  gave 
to  the  King  of  Prussia. 

*'Yes — what  would  Russia  be  like  now,  if  it 
were  not  for  me?"  he  again  thought. 

''Well,  what  else  is  there?"  said  he. 

'*A     courier    from     the     Caucasus,"     said 


HADJI   MUR  AD  179 

Cliernj'shov,  and  he  reported  what  Vorontsov 
had  written  about  Hadji  Murad's  surrender. 

''Dear  me!"  said  Nicholas.  "Well,  it's  a 
good  beginning!" 

"Evidently  the  plan  devised  by  your  Majesty 
begins  to  bear  fruit,"  said  Chernyshov. 

This  approval  of  his  strategic  talents  was 
particularly  pleasant  to  Nicholas,  because, 
though  he  prided  himself  on  those  talents,  at 
the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  knew  that  they  did 
not  really  exist;  and  he  now  desired  to  hear 
more  detailed  praise  of  himself. 

"How  do  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

"I  understand  it  this  way — that  if  your 
Majesty's  plans  had  been  adopted  long  ago,  and 
we  had  moved  forward  steadily  though  slowly, 
cutting  down  forests  and  destroying  the  sup- 
plies of  food,  the  Caucasus  would  have  been 
subjugated  long  ago.  I  attribute  Hadji  Mu- 
rad's surrender  entirely  to  his  having  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  they  can  hold  out  no 
longer." 

"True,"  said  Nicholas. 

Although  the  plan  of  a  gradual. advance  into 
the  enemy's  territory  by  means  of  felling  for- 


180  HADJI   MURAD 

ests  and  destroying  the  food  supplies  was 
Ermolov's  and  Velyammov's  plan,  and  was 
quite  contrary  to  Nicholas's  own  plan  of  seiz- 
ing Shamil's  place  of  residence  and  destroying 
that  nest  of  robbers — which  was  the  plan  on 
which  the  Dargo  expedition  in  1845  (that  cost 
so  many  lives)  had  been  undertaken — Nicholas 
nevertheless  also  attributed  to  himself  the  plan 
of  a  slow  advance  and  a  systematic  felling  of 
forests  and  devastation  of  the  country.  It 
would  seem  that  to  believe  that  the  plan  of  a 
slow  movement  by  felling  forests  and  destroy- 
ing food  supplies  was  his  own,  necessitated  the 
hiding  of  the  fact  that  he  had  insisted  on  quite 
contrary  operations  in  1845.  But  he  did  not 
hide  it,  and  was  proud  of  the  plan  of  the  1845 
expedition,  and  also  of  the  plan  of  a  slow  ad- 
vance— though  evidently  the  two  were  contrary 
to  one  another.  Continual  brazen  flattery  from 
everybody  round  him,  in  the  teeth  of  obvious 
facts,  had  brought  him  to  such  a  state  that  he 
no  longer  saw  his  own  inconsistencies  or 
measured  his  actions  and  words  by  reality 
logic  or  even  by  simple  common  sense;  but  was 
quite  convinced  that  all  his  orders,  however 


HADJI   MUR  AD  181 

senseless  unjust  and  mutually  contradictory 
they  might  be,  became  reasonable  just  and  mu- 
tually accordant  simply  because  he  gave  them. 
His  decision  in  the  case  next  reported  to  him — 
that  of  the  student  of  the  Academy  of  Medi- 
cine— was  of  that  senseless  kind. 

The  case  was  as  follows :  A  young  man  who 
had  twice  failed  in  his  examinations  was  being 
examined  a  third  time,  and  when  the  examiner 
again  would  not  pass  him,  the  young  man,  whose 
nerves  were  deranged,  considering  this  to  be  an 
injustice,  in  a  paroxysm  of  fury  seized  a  pen- 
knife from  the  table  and,  rushing  at  the  pro- 
fessor, inflicted  on  him  several  trifling  wounds. 

''What's  his  name?"  asked  Nicholas. 

**Bzhez6vsky." 

**A  Pole?" 

*'0f  Polish  descent,  and  a  Eoman  Catholic," 
answered  Chernyshov. 

Nicholas  frowned.  He  had  done  much  evil 
to  the  Poles.  To  justify  that  evil  he  had  to  be 
certain  that  all  Poles  were  rascals,  and  he  con- 
sidered them  to  be  such,  and  hated  them  accord- 
ingly in  proportion  to  the  evil  he  had  done  to 
them. 


182  HADJI    MURAD 

"Wait  a  little,"  he  said,  closing  his  eyes  and 
bowing  his  head, 

Chernyshov,  having  more  than  once  heard 
Nicholas  say  so,  knew  that  when  the  Emperor 
had  to  take  a  decision,  it  was  only  necessary 
for  him  to  concentrate  his  attention  for  a  few 
moments,  and  the  spirit  moved  him,  and  the 
best  possible  decision  presented  itself,  as 
though  an  inner  voice  had  told  him  what  to  do. 
He  was  now  thinking  how  most  fully  to  satisfy 
the  feeling  of  hatred  against  the  Poles  which 
this  incident  had  stirred  up  within  him;  and  the 
inner  voice  suggested  the  following  decision. 
He  took  the  report  and  in  his  large  handwriting 
wrote  on  its  margin,  with  three  orthographical 
mistakes : 

^' Diserves  deth,  hut,  thmik  God,  we  have  no 
capitle  punishment,  and  it  is  not  for  me  to  in- 
troduce it.  Make  him  run  the  gauntlet  of  a 
thousand  men  tivelve  times. — Nicholas." 

He  signed,  adding  his  unnaturally  huge 
flourish. 

Nicholas  knew  that  twelve  thousand  strokes 
with  the  regulation  rods  were  not  only  certain 
death   with   torture,    but    were   a   superfluous 


HADJI    MUR  AD  183 

cruelty,  for  five  thousand  strokes  were  suffi- 
cient to  kill  the  strongest  man.  But  it  pleased 
him  to  be  ruthlessly  cruel,  and  it  also  pleased 
him  to  think  that  we  have  abolished  capital 
punishment  in  Russia. 

Having  written  his  decision  about  the  stu- 
dent, he  pushed  it  across  to  Chernyshov. 

''There,"  he  said,  "read  it." 

Chernyshov  read  it,  and  bowed  his  head  as 
a  sign  of  respectful  amazement  at  the  wisdom 
of  the  decision. 

"Yes,  and  let  all  the  students  be  present  on 
the  drill  ground  at  the  punishment,"  added 
Nicholas. 

"It  will  do  them  good!  I  will  abolish  this 
revolutionary  spirit,  and  will  tear  it  up  by  the 
roots!"  he  thought. 

"It  shall  be  done,"  replied  Chernyshov;  and 
after  a  short  pause  he  straightened  the  tuft  on 
his  forehead  and  returned  to  the  Caucasian  re- 
port. 

"What  do  you  command  me  to  write  in  re- 
ply to  Prince  Vorontsov's  despatch?" 

"To  keep  firmly  to  my  system  of  destroying 
the  dwellings  and  food  supplies  in  Chechnya, 


184  HADJI   MUR AD 

and  to  harass  them  by  raids,"  answered  Nicho- 
las. 

''And  what  are  your  Majesty's  commands 
with  reference  to  Hadji  Murad?"  asked 
Chernyshov. 

''Why,  Vorontsov  writes  that  he  wants  to 
make  use  of  him  in  the  Caucasus." 

"Is  it  not  dangerous?"  said  Chernyshov, 
avoiding  Nicholas's  gaze.  "Prince  Voron- 
tsov is,  I'm  afraid,  too  confiding." 

"And  you — what  do  you  think?"  asked 
Nicholas  sharply,  detecting  Chernyshov 's  in- 
tention of  presenting  Vorontsov 's  decision  in 
an  unfavourable  light. 

"Well,  I  should  have  thought  it  would  be 
safer  to  deport  him  to  Central  Russia." 

"You  would  have  thought!"  said  Nicholas 
ironically.  "But  I  don't  think  so,  and  agree 
with  Vorontsov.     Write  to  him  accordingly." 

"It  shall  be  done,"  said  Chernyshov,  rising 
and  bowing  himself  out. 

Dolgoruky  also  bowed  himself  out,  having 
during  the  whole  audience  only  uttered  a  few 
words  (in  reply  to  a  question  from  Nicholas) 
about  the  movement  of  the  army. 


HADJI   MUR  AD  185 

After  Chernyshov  Nicholas  received  Bibikov, 
General-Governor  of  the  Western  Provinces. 
Having  expressed  his  approval  of  the  measures 
taken  by  Bibikov  against  the  mutinous  peasants 
who  did  not  wish  to  accept  the  Orthodox  Faith, 
he  ordered  him  to  have  all  those  who  did  not 
submit  tried  by  court-martial.  That  was 
equivalent  to  sentencing  them  to  run  the  gaunt- 
let. He  also  ordered  the  editor  of  a  newspaper 
to  be  sent  to  serve  in  the  ranks  of  the  army  for 
publishing  information  about  the  transfer  of 
several  thousand  State  peasants  to  the  Imperial 
estates. 

''I  do  this  because  I  consider  it  necessary," 
said  Nicholas,  ''and  I  will  not  allow  it  to  be  dis- 
cussed.'^ 

Bibikov  saw  the  cruelty  of  the  order  concern- 
ing the  Uniate  ^  peasants,  and  the  injustice  of 
transferring  State  peasants  (the  only  free  peas- 
ants in  Russia  in  those  days)  to  the  Crown, 
which  meant  making  them  serfs  of  the  Imperial 
family.  But  it  was  impossible  to  express  dis- 
sent.   Not  to  agree  with  Nicholas's  decisions 

G  The  Uniates  acknowledge  the  Pope  of  Rome,  though  in 
other  respects  they  are  in  accord  with  the  Orthodox  Russo- 
Greelf  Church. 


186  HADJI   MUR  AD 

would  have  meant  the  loss  of  that  brilliant  po- 
sition which  it  had  cost  Bibikov  forty  years 
to  attain,  and  which  he  now  enjoyed;  and  he 
therefore  submissively  bowed  his  dark  head 
(already  touched  with  grey)  to  indicate  his  sub- 
mission and  his  readiness  to  fulfil  the  cruel, 
insensate  and  dishonest  supreme  will. 

Having  dismissed  Bibikov,  Nicholas,  with  a 
sense  of  duty  well  fulfilled,  stretched  himself, 
glanced  at  the  clock,  and  went  to  get  ready  to 
go  out.  Having  put  on  a  uniform  with  epaulets 
Orders  and  a  ribbon,  he  went  out  into  the  re- 
ception hall,  where  more  than  a  hundred  per- 
sons— men  in  uniforms  and  women  in  elegant 
low-necked  dresses,  all  standing  in  the  places 
assigned  to  them — awaited  his  arrival  with  agi- 
tation. 

He  came  out  to  them  with  a  lifeless  look  in 
his  eyes,  his  chest  expanded,  his  stomach  bulg- 
ing out  above  and  below  its  bandages ;  and  feel- 
ing everybody's  gaze  tremulously  and  obsequi- 
ously fixed  upon  him,  he  assumed  an  even  more 
triumphant  air.  When  his  eyes  met  those  of 
people  he  knew,  remembering  who  was  who,  he 
stopped  and  addressed  a  few  words  to  them, 


HADJI    MURAD  187 

sometimes  in  Russian  and  sometimes  in  French, 
and  transfixing  them  with  his  cold  glassy  eye, 
listened  to  what  they  said. 

Having  received  all  the  New  Year  congratula- 
tions, he  passed  on  to  church.  God,  through 
His  servants  the  priests,  greeted  and  praised 
Nicholas  just  as  worldly  people  did;  and  weary 
as  he  was  of  these  greetings  and  praises,  Nicho- 
las duly  accepted  them.  All  this  was  as  it 
should  be,  because  the  welfare  and  happiness 
of  the  whole  world  depended  on  him;  and 
though  the  matter  wearied  him,  he  still  did  not 
refuse  the  universe  his  assistance. 

When  at  the  end  of  the  service  the  mag- 
nificently arrayed  deacon,  his  long  hair  crimped 
and  carefully  combed,  began  the  chant  Many 
Years,  which  was  heartily  caught  up  by 
the  splendid  choir,  Nicholas  looked  round 
and  noticed  Nelidova,  with  her  fine  shoul- 
ders, standing  by  a  window,  and  he  decided 
the  comparison  with  yesterday's  girl  in  her 
favour. 

After  Mass  he  went  to  the  Empress  and  spent 
a  few  minutes  in  the  bosom  of  his  family,  jok- 
ing with  the  children  and  with  his  wife.    Then, 


188  HADJI   MUR  AD 

passing  through  the  Hermitage,"  he  visited  the 
Minister  of  the  Court,  Volkonsky,  and  among 
other  things  ordered  him  to  pay  out  of  a  special 
fund  a  yearly  pension  to  the  mother  of  yes- 
terday's girl.  From  there  he  went  for  his  cus- 
tomary drive. 

Dinner  that  day  was  served  in  the  Pompeian 
Hall,  Besides  the  younger  sons  of  Nicholas 
and  Michael,  there  were  also  invited  Baron 
Lieven,  Count  Rjevsky,  Dolgoruky,  the  Prus- 
sian Ambassador,  and  the  King  of  Prussia's 
aide-de-camp. 

AVhile  waiting  for  the  appearance  of  the  Em- 
peror and  Empress,  an  interesting  conversation 
took  place  between  Baron  Lieven  and  the  Prus- 
sian Ambassador  concerning  the  disquieting 
news  from  Poland. 

"La  Pologne  et  le  Caucase,  ce  sont  les  deux 
cauteres  de  la  Russie/'  "^  said  Lieven.  "II  nous 
faut  100,000  hommes  a  peu  pres,  dans  chaqu'un 
de  ces  deux  pays.'* 

6  A  celebrated  museum  and  picture  gallery  in  St.  Peters- 
burg, adjoining  tbe  Winter  Palace. 

7  "Poland  and  tbe  Caucasus  are  Russia's  two  sores.     We 
need  about  100,000  men  in  eacb  of  tbose  two  countrie-s." 


HADJI   MUR  AD  189 

The  Ambassador  expressed  a  fictitious  sur- 
prise that  it  should  be  so. 

''Vous  dites,  la  Pologne — "^  began  the  Am- 
bassador. 

''  Oh  Old,  c'etait  un  coup  de  maitre  de 
Metternich,  de  nous  en  avoir  laisse  I'em- 
barras.     .    .     ." 

At  this  point  the  Empress,  with  her  trembling 
head  and  fixed  smile,  entered,  followed  by  Nich- 
olas. 

At  dinner  Nicholas  spoke  of  Hadji  Murad's 
surrender,  and  said  that  the  war  in  the  Cau- 
casus must  now  soon  come  to  an  end  in  conse- 
quence of  the  measures  he  was  taking  to  limit 
the  scope  of  the  mountaineers,  by  felling  their 
forests  and  by  his  system  of  erecting  a  series 
of  small  forts. 

The  Ambassador,  having  exchanged  a  rapid 
glance  with  the  aide-de-camp — to  whom  he  had 
only  that  morning  spoken  about  Nicholas's  un- 
fortunate weakness  for  considering  himself  a 
great    strategist — warmly    praised    this    plan, 

8  "Yon   sny  tlint  Poland — "     "Oh.  yes.   it  was  a   master- 
stroke of  iMctternicli's  to  leave  us  tbe  bother  of  it.     .     .     ." 


190  HAD. IT    MURAD 

which  once  more  demonstrated  Nicholas's  great 

strategic  ability. 

After  dinner  Nicholas   drove  to   the  ballet, 

where  hundreds  of  women  marched  round  in 
tights  and  scant  clothing.  One  of  them  spe- 
cially attracted  him,  and  he  had  the  German 
ballet  master  sent  for,  and  gave  orders  that  a 
diamond  ring  should  be  presented  to  him. 

The  next  day,  when  Chernyshov  came  with 
his  report,  Nicholas  again  confirmed  his  order 
to  Vorontsov — that  now  that  Hadji  Murad  had 
surrendered,  the  Chechens  should  be  more  ac- 
tively harassed  than  ever,  and  the  cordon  round 
them  tightened. 

Chernyshov  wrote  in  that  sense  to  Voron- 
tsov; and  another  courier,  overdriving  more 
horses  and  bruising  the  faces  of  more  drivers, 
galloped  to  Tiflis. 


XVI 

In  obedience  to  this  command  of  Nicholas,  a 
raid  was  immediately  made  in  Chechnya  that 
same  month,  January  1852. 

The  detachment  ordered  for  the  raid  con- 
sisted of  four  infantry  battalions,  two  com- 
panies of  Cossacks,  and  eight  guns.  The  col- 
umn marched  along  the  road,  and  on  both  sides 
of  it  in  a  continuous  line,  now  mounting,  now 
descending,  marched  Jligers  in  high  boots, 
sheepskin  coats  and  tall  caps,  with  rifles  on 
their  shoulders  and  cartridges  in  their  belts. 

iVs  usual  when  marching  through  a  hostile 
country,  silence  was  observed  as  far  as  pos- 
sible. Only  occasionally  the  guns  jingled,  jolt- 
ing across  a  ditch,  or  an  artillery  horse,  not 
understanding  that  silence  was  ordered,  snorted 
or  neighed,  or  an  angry  commander  shouted 
in  a  hoarse  subdued  voice  to  his  subordinates 
that  the  line  was  spreading  out  too  much,  or 
marching  too  near  or  too  far  from  the  column. 

191 


192  HADJI   MURAD 

Only  once  was  the  silence  broken,  when,  from 
a  bramble  patch  between  the  line  and  the  col- 
umn, a  gazelle  with  a  white  breast  and  grey 
back  jumped  out,  followed  by  a  ram  of  the  same 
colour    with    small    backward-curving    horns. 
Doubling  up  their  forelegs  at  each  big  bound 
they  took,  the  beautiful  and  timid  creatures 
came  so  close  to  the  column  that  some  of  the 
soldiers  rushed  after  them,  laughing  and  shout- 
ing, intending  to  bayonet  them,  but  the  gazelles 
turned  back,  slipped  through  the  line  of  Jdgers, 
and,  pursued  by  a  few  horsemen  and  the  com- 
pany's dogs,  fled  like  birds  to  the  mountains. 
It  was  still  winter,  but  towards  noon,  when 
the  column    (which  had   started   early  in  the 
morning)   had  gone  three  miles,  it  had  risen 
high  enough  and  was  powerful  enough  to  make 
the  men  quite  hot,  and  its  rays  were  so  bright 
that  it  was  painful  to  look  at  the  shining  steel 
of  the  bayonets,  or  at  the  reflections — like  little 
suns — on  the  brass  of  the  cannons. 

The  clear  rapid  stream  the  detachment  had 
just  crossed  lay  behind,  and  in  front  were  tilled 
fields  and  meadows  in  the  shallow  valleys. 
Further  in  front  were  the  dark  mysterious  for- 


HADJI   MURAD  193 

est-clad  hills,  with  crags  rising  beyond  them, 
and  further  still,  on  the  lofty  horizon,  were  the 
ever-beautiful  ever-changing  snowy  peaks  that 
played  with  the  light  like  diamonds. 

In  a  black  coat  and  tall  cap,  shouldering  his 
sword,  at  the  head  of  the  5th  Company  marched 
Butler,  a  tall  handsome  officer  who  had  recently 
exchanged  from  the  Guards.  He  was  tilled 
with  a  buoyant  sense  of  the  joy  of  living,  and 
also  of  the  danger  of  death,  and  with  a  wish 
for  action,  and  the  consciousness  of  being  part 
of  an  immense  whole  directed  by  a  single  will. 
This  was  the  second  time  he  was  going  into 
action,  and  he  thought  how  in  a  moment  they 
would  be  fired  at,  and  that  he  would  not  only 
not  stoop  when  the  shells  flew  overhead,  nor 
heed  the  whistle  of  the  bullets,  but  would  even 
carry  his  head  more  erect  than  before,  and 
would  look  round  at  his  comrades  and  at  the 
soldiers  with  smiling  eyes,  and  would  begin  to 
talk  in  a  perfectly  calm  voice  about  quite  other 
matters. 

The  detachment  turned  off  the  good  road  on 
to  a  little-used  one  that  crossed  a  stubbly  maize 
field,  and  it  was  drawing  near  the  forest  when 


194  HADJI   MURAD 

— they  could  not  see  whence — with  an  ominous 
whistle,  a  shell  flew  past  amid  the  baggage 
wagons,  and  tore  up  the  ground  in  the  field  by 
the  roadside. 

''It  is  beginning,"  said  Butler,  with  a  bright 
smile  to  a  comrade  who  was  walking  beside 
him. 

And  so  it  was.  After  the  shell,  from  under 
the  shelter  of  the  forest  appeared  a  thick  crowd 
of  mounted  Chechens  with  banners.  In  the 
midst  of  the  crowd  could  be  seen  a  large  green 
banner,  and  an  old  and  very  far-sighted  ser- 
geant-major informed  the  short-sighted  Butler 
that  Shamil  himself  must  be  there.  The  horse- 
men came  down  the  hill  and  appeared  to  the 
right,  at  the  highest  part  of  the  valley  near- 
est the  detachment,  and  began  to  descend.  A 
little  general  in  a  thick  black  coat  and  tall  cap 
rode  up  to  Butler's  company  on  his  ambler,  and 
ordered  him  to  the  right  to  encounter  the  de- 
scending horsemen,  Butler  quickly  led  his  com- 
pany in  the  direction  indicated,  but  before  he 
reached  the  valley  he  heard  two  cannon  shots 
behind  him.  He  looked  round :  two  clouds  of 
grey  smoke  had  risen  above  two  cannons  and 


HADJi   MURAD  195 

were  spreading  along  the  valley.  The  raonn- 
taiiieer's  horsemen — who  had  evidently  not  ex- 
pected to  meet  artillery — retired,  Butler's 
company  began  firing  at  them,  and  the  whole 
ravine  was  filled  with  the  smoke  of  powder. 
Only  higher  up,  above  the  ravine,  could  the 
mountaineers  be  seen  hurriedly  retreating, 
though  still  firing  back  at  the  Cossacks  who 
pursued  them.  The  company  followed  the 
mountaineers  further,  and  on  the  slope  of  a 
second  ravine  they  came  in  view  of  an  aoul. 

Following  the  Cossacks,  Butler  with  his  com- 
Ijany  entered  the  aoul  at  a  run.  None  of  its 
inhabitants  were  there.  The  soldiers  were 
ordered  to  burn  the  corn  and  the  hay,  as  well 
as  the  saklyas,  and  the  whole  aoul  was  soon 
filled  with  pungent  smoke,  amid  which  the  sol- 
diers rushed  about,  dragging  out  of  the  suklyas 
what  they  could  find,  and  above  all  catching 
and  shooting  the  fowls  the  mountaineers  had 
not  been  able  to  take  away  with  them. 

The  officers  sat  down  at  some  distance  beyond 
the  smoke,  and  lunclipd  and  di'ank.  ^''he  ser- 
geant-major brought  them  some  honeycombs  on 
a  board.     There  was  no  sign  of  any  Chechens, 


196  HADJI   MUR  AD 

and  early  in  the  afternoon  the  order  was  given 
to  retreat.  The  companies  formed  into  a  col- 
umn behind  the  aoul,  and  Butler  happened  to 
be  in  the  rearguard.  As  soon  as  they  started 
Chechens  appeared,  and,  following  the  detach- 
ment, tired  at  it. 

When  the  detachment  came  out  into  an  open 
space,  the  mountaineers  pursued  it  no  further. 
Not  one  of  Butler's  company  had  been 
wounded,  and  he  returned  in  a  most  happy  and 
energetic  mood.  When,  after  fording  the  same 
stream  it  had  crossed  in  the  morning,  the  de- 
tachment spread  over  the  maize  fields  and  the 
meadows,  the  singers  ^  of  each  company  came 
forward,  and  songs  filled  the  air. 

^'Very  diff'rent,  very  diff'rent,  Jagers  are, 
Jdgers  are!"  sang  Butler's  singers,  and  his 
horse  stepped  merrily  to  the  music.  Trezorka, 
the  shaggA'  grey  dog  of  the  company,  with  his 
tail  curled  up,  ran  in  front  with  an  air  of  re- 
sponsibility, like  a  commander.  Butler  felt 
buoyant  calm  and  joyful.  War  presented  itself 
to  him  as  consisting  only  in  his  exposing  him- 
self to  danger  and  to  possible  death,  and  thereby 

1  Each  regiment  had  a  choir  of  singers. 


HADJT   MURAD  197 

gaining  rewards  and  the  respect  of  his  com- 
rades here,  as  well  as  of  his  friends  in  Russia. 
Strange  to  say,  his  imagination  never  pictured 
the  other  aspect  of  war :  the  death  and  wounds 
of  the  soldiers  officers  and  mountaineers.  To 
retain  this  poetic  conception  he  even  uncon- 
sciously avoided  looking  at  the  dead  and 
wounded.  So  that  day,  when  we  had  three  dead 
and  twelve  wounded,  he  passed  by  a  corpse 
lying  on  its  back,  and  only  saw  with  one  eye 
the  strange  position  of  the  waxen  hand  and  a 
dark  red  spot  on  the  head,  and  did  not  stop  to 
look.  The  hillsmen  appeared  to  him  only  as 
mounted  cUliigits,  from  whom  one  had  to  de- 
fend oneself. 

"You  see,  my  dear  sir,"  said  his  major  in 
an  interval  between  two  songs,  ''it's  not  as 
with  you  in  Petersburg — 'Eyes  right!  Eyes 
left!'  Here  we  have  done  our  job;  and  now 
we  go  home,  and  Masha  will  set  a  pie  and  some 
nice  cabbage  soup  before  us.  That's  life; 
don't  you  think  so? — Now  then!  As  the  Dawn 
tuas  Breaking!"  he  called  for  his  favourite 
song. 

There  was  no  wind,  the  air  was  fresh  and 


198  HADJI    MUR  AD 

clear,  and  so  transparent  that  the  snow  hills 
nearly  a  hundred  miles  away  seemed  quite  near, 
and  in  the  intervals  between  the  songs  the  reg- 
ular sound  of  the  footsteps  and  the  jingle  of  the 
guns  was  heard  as  a  background  on  which  each 
song  began  and  ended.  The  song  that  was 
being  sung  in  Butler's  company  was  composed 
by  a  cadet  in  honour  of  the  regiment,  and  went 
to  a  dance  tune.  The  chorus  was,  ''Very 
diff'rent,  very  diff'rent,  Jdgers  are,  Jcigers 
are!" 

Butler  rode  beside  the  officer  next  in  com- 
mand above  him.  Major  Petrov,  with  whom  he 
lived;  and  he  felt  he  could  not  be  thankful 
enough  to  have  exchanged  from  the  Guards  and 
come  to  the  Caucasus.  His  chief  reason  for 
exchanging  was  that  he  had  lost  all  he  had  at 
cards,  and  was  afraid  that  if  he  remained  there 
he  would  be  unable  to  resist  playing,  though 
he  had  nothing  more  to  lose.  Now  all  this  was 
over,  his  life  was  quite  changed,  and  was  such 
a  pleasant  and  brave  one!  He  forgot  that  he 
was  ruined,  and  forgot  his  unpaid  debts.  The 
Caucasus,  the  war,  the  soldiers,  the  officers, 
those   tipsy   brave   good-natured   fellows,   and 


HADJI   MUR  AD  199 

Major  Petrov  himself,  all  seemed  so  delightful 
that  sometimes  it  appeared  too  good  to  be  true 
that  he  was  not  in  Petersburg — in  a  room  filled 
with  tobacco-smoke,  turning  down  the  corners 
of  cards  and  gambling,  hating  the  holder  of 
the  bank,  and  feeling  a  dull  pain  in  his  head — 
but  was  really  here  in  this  glorious  region 
among  these  brave  Caucasians. 

The  Major  and  the  daughter  of  a  surgeon's 
orderly,  formerly  known  as  Masha,  but  now 
generally  called  by  the  more  respectful  name 
of  Mary  Dmitrievna,  lived  together  as  man  and 
wife.  Mary  Dmitrievna  was  a  handsome  fair- 
haired  very  freckled  childless  woman  of  thirty. 
Whatever  her  past  may  have  been,  she  was  now 
the  major's  faithful  companion,  and  looked 
after  him  like  a  nurse — a  very  necessary  mat- 
ter, since  the  Major  often  drank  himself  into 
oblivion. 

When  they  reached  the  fort  everything  hap- 
pened as  the  Major  had  foreseen.  Mary 
Dmitrievna  gave  him,  Butler,  and  two  other 
officers  of  the  detachment  who  had  been  in- 
vited, a  nourishing  and  tasty  dinner,  and 
the  Major  ate  and  drank  till  he  was  unable  to 


200  HADJI   MURAD 

speak,    and    then    went    oi¥    to    his    room    to 
sleep. 

Butler,  tired  but  contented,  having  drunk 
rather  more  Chikhir  wine  than  was  good  for 
him,  went  to  his  bedroom,  and  hardly  had  he 
time  to  undress  before,  placing  his  hand  under 
his  handsome  curly  head,  he  fell  into  a  sound, 
dreamless,  and  unbroken  sleep. 


XVII 

The  aoul  which  had  been  destroyed  was  that  in 
which  Hadji  Murad  had  spent  the  night  before 
he  went  over  to  the  Russians.  Sado,  with  his 
family,  had  left  the  aoul  on  the  approach  of  the 
Russian  detachment;  and  when  he  returned  he 
found  his  sdMya  in  ruins — the  roof  fallen  in, 
the  door  and  the  posts  supporting  the  pent- 
house burned,  and  the  interior  filthy.  His  son, 
the  handsome,  bright-eyed  boy  who  had  gazed 
with  such  ecstasy  at  Hadji  Murad,  was  brought 
dead  to  the  mosque  on  a  horse  covered  with  a 
hurka.  He  had  been  stabbed  in  the  back  with  a 
bayonet.  The  dignified  woman  who  had  served 
Hadji  Murad  when  he  was  at  the  house  now 
stood  over  her  son's  body,  her  smock  torn  in 
front,  her  withered  old  breasts  exposed,  her 
hair  down ;  and  she  dug  her  nails  into  her  face 
till  it  bled,  and  wailed  incessantly.  Sado,  with 
pickaxe  and  spade,  had  gone  with  his  relatives 
to  dig  a  grave  for  his  son.     The  old  grand- 

201 


202  HADJI   MUR  AD 

father  sat  by  the  wall  of  the  ruined  sdklya,  cut- 
ting a  stick  and  gazing  solidly  in  front  of  him. 
He  had  only  just  returned  from  the  apiary. 
The  two  stacks  of  hay  there  had  been  burnt ;  the 
apricot  and  cherry  trees  he  had  planted  and 
reared  were  broken  and  scorched;  and,  worse 
still,  all  the  beehives  and  bees  were  burnt. 
The  wailing  of  the  women  and  of  the  little  chil- 
dren who  cried  with  their  mothers,  mingled 
with  the  lowing  of  the  hungry  cattle,  for  whom 
there  was  no  food.  The  bigger  children  did  not 
play,  but  followed  their  elders  with  frightened 
eyes.  The  fountain  was  polluted,  evidently  on 
purpose,  so  that  the  water  could  not  be  used. 
The  mosque  was  polluted  in  the  same  way,  and 
the  Mullah  and  his  assistants  were  cleaning  it 
out.  No  one  spoke  of  hatred  of  the  Russians. 
The  feeling  experienced  by  all  the  Chechens, 
from  the  youngest  to  the  oldest,  was  stronger 
than  hate.  It  was  not  hatred,  for  they  did  not 
regard  those  Russian  dogs  as  human  beings; 
but  it  was  such  repulsion  disgust  and  perplexity 
at  the  senseless  cruelty  of  these  creatures,  that 
the  desire  to  exterminate  them — like  the  desire 
to    exterminate    rats,    j^oisonous    spiders,    or 


HADJI    MURAD  203 

wolves — was  as  natural  an  instinct  as  that  of 
self-preservation. 

The  iiilialiitants  of  the  aoiil  were  confronted 
by  the  choice  of  remaining  there  and  restoring 
with  frightful  effort  what  had  been  produced 
with  sucli  labour  and  had  been  so  lightly  and 
senselessly  destroyed,  facing  every  moment  the 
possibility  of  a  repetition  of  what  had  hap- 
pened, or — contrary  to  their  religion  and  de- 
spite the  repulsion  and  contempt  they  felt — to 
submit  to  the  Russians.  The  old  men  prayed, 
and  unanimously  decided  to  send  envoys  to 
Shamil,  ashing  him  for  help.  Then  they  imme- 
diately set  to  work  to  restore  what  had  been 
destroyed. 


XVIII 

On  the  morning  after  the  raid,  not  very  early, 
Butler  left  the  house  by  the  back  porch,  mean- 
ing to  take  a  stroll  and  a  breath  of  fresh  air 
before  breakfast,  which  he  usually  had  with 
Petrov.  The  sun  had  already  risen  above  the 
hills,  and  it  was  painful  to  look  at  the  brightly 
lit-up  white  walls  of  the  houses  on  the  right 
side  of  the  street ;  but  then,  as  always,  it  was 
cheerful  and  soothing  to  look  to  the  left,  at  the 
dark  receding  ascending  forest-clad  hills,  and 
at  the  dim  line  of  snow  peaks  which  as  usual 
pretended  to  be  clouds.  Butler  looked  at  these 
mountains,  inhaled  deep  breaths  and  rejoiced 
that  he  was  alive,  and  that  it  was  just  he  him- 
self that  was  alive,  and  that  he  lived  in  this 
beautiful  place. 

He  was  also  rather  pleased  that  he  had  be- 
haved so  well  in  yesterday's  affair,  both  dur- 
ing the  advance  and  especially  during  the  re- 
treat, when  things  were  pretty  hot ;  and  he  was 
also  pleased  to  remember  how  on  their  return 

304 


HADJI   MUR  AD  205 

after  the  raid  MAsha  (or  INfary  Dmitrievna), 
Petrov's  mistress,  had  treated  them  at  dinner, 
and  had  been  particularly  nice  and  simple  with 
everybody,  but  specially  kind — as  he  thought — 
to  him. 

Mary  Dmitrievna,  with  her  thick  plait  of  hair, 
her  broad  shoulders,  her  high  bosom,  and  the 
radiant  smile  on  her  kindly  freckled  face,  in- 
voluntarily attracted  Butler,  who  was  a  strong 
young  bachelor;  and  it  even  seemed  to  him  that 
she  wanted  him ;  but  he  considered  that  that 
would  be  wrong  towards  his  good-natured 
simple-hearted  comrade,  and  he  maintained  a 
simple  respectful  attitude  towards  her,  and  was 
pleased  with  himself  for  so  doing. 

He  was  thinking  of  this  when  his  meditations 
were  disturbed  by  the  tramp  of  many  horses' 
hoofs  along  the  dusty  road  in  front  of  him,  as  if 
several  men  were  riding  that  way.  He  looked 
up,  and  saw  at  the  end  of  the  street  a  group 
of  horsemen  coming  towards  him  at  a  walk. 
In  front  of  a  score  of  Cossacks,  rode  two  men : 
one  in  a  white  Circassian  coat,  with  a  tall  tur- 
ban on  his  head;  the  other,  an  officer  in  the  Eus- 
sian  service,  dark,  with  an  aquiline  nose,  and 


206  HADJI   MURAD 

much  silver  on  his  uniform  and  weapons.  The 
man  with  the  turban  rode  a  fine  chestnut  horse 
with  mane  and  tail  of  a  lighter  shade,  a  small 
head,  and  beautiful  eyes.  The  officer's  was  a 
large  handsome  Karabfikh  horse.  Butler,  a 
lover  of  horses,  immediately  recognised  the 
great  strength  of  the  first  horse,  and  stopped  to 
learn  who  these  people  were. 

The  officer  addressed  him.  ''This  the  house 
of  commanding  officer?"  he  asked,  his  foreign 
accent  and  his  words  betraying  his  foreign 
origin. 

Butler  replied  that  it  was.  "And  who  is 
that?"  he  added,  coming  nearer  to  the  officer 
and  indicating  the  man  with  the  turban. 

''That,  Hadji  Murad.  He  come  here  to  stay 
with  the  commander,"  said  the  officer. 

Butler  knew  about  Hadji  Murad,  and  about 
his  having  come  over  to  the  Russians ;  but  he 
had  not  at  all  expected  to  see  him  here  in  this 
little  fort.  Hadji  Murad  gave  him  a  friendly 
look. 

"Good  day,  Jcoflildy,^^  said  Butler,  repeating 
the  Tartar  greeting  he  had  learnt. 

''Saubull"  (Be  well!)  replied  Hadji  Murad, 


HADJI    MUR  AD  207 

nodding*.  He  rode  up  to  Butler  and  held  out 
his  hand,  from  two  fingers  of  which  hung  his 
whip. 

"Are  you  the  chief?"  he  asked. 

"No,  the  chief  is  in  here.  I  will  go  and  call 
him,"  said  Butler,  addressing  the  officer;  and 
he  went  up  the  steps  and  pushed  the  door.  But 
the  door  of  the  visitors'  entrance — as  Mary 
Dmitrievna  called  it — was  locked;  and  as  it  still 
remained  closed  after  he  had  knocked,  Butler 
went  round  to  the  back  door.  He  called  his 
orderly,  but  received  no  reply;  and  finding 
neither  of  the  two  orderlies,  he  went  into  the 
kitchen,  where  Mary  Dmitrievna — flushed,  with 
a  kerchief  tied  round  her  head,  and  her  sleeves 
rolled  up  on  her  plump  white  arms — was  roll- 
ing pastry,  white  as  her  hands,  and  cutting  it 
into  small  pieces  to  make  pies  of. 

"Where  have  the  orderlies  gone  to?"  asked 
Butler. 

"Gone  to  drink,"  replied  ^fary  Dmitrievna. 
"What  do  you  want?" 

"To  have  the  front  door  opened.  Yon  have 
a  whole  horde  of  mountaineers  in  front  of  your 
house.     Hadji  Murad  has  come!" 


208  HADJI   MUR  AD 

"Invent  something  else!"  said  Mary  Dmitri- 
evna,  smiling. 

"I  am  not  joking,  he  is  really  waiting  by  the 
porch!" 

"Is  it  really  true?"  said  she. 

"Why  should  I  want  to  deceive  you?  Go  and 
see;  he's  just  at  the  porch!" 

"Dear  me,  here's  a  go!"  said  Mary  Dmitri- 
evna,  pulling  down  her  sleeves,  and  putting  up 
her  hand  to  feel  whether  the  hairpins  in  her 
thick  plait  were  all  in  order.  "Then  I  will  go 
and  wake  Ivan  Matveitch." 

"No,  I'll  go  myself.  And  you,  Bondarenko, 
go  and  open  the  door,"  said  he  to  Petrov's 
orderly,  who  had  just  appeared. 

"Well,  so  much  the  better!"  said  Mary 
Dmitrievna,  and  returned  to  her  work. 

When  he  heard  that  Hadji  Murad  had  come 
to  his  house,  Ivan  Matveitch  Petrov,  the  Ma- 
jor, who  had  already  heard  that  Hadji  Murad 
was  in  Grozny,  was  not  at  all  surprised;  and 
sitting  up  in  bed  he  made  a  cigarette,  lit  it,  and 
began  to  dress,  loudly  clearing  his  throat,  and 
grumbling  at  the  authorities  who  had  sent  "that 
devil"  to  him. 


HADJI   MUR  AD  209 

When  he  was  ready,  he  told  his  orderly  to 
bring  him  some  medicine.  The  orderly  knew 
that  "medicine"  meant  vodka,  and  brought 
some. 

''There  is  nothing  so  bad  as  mixing,"  mut- 
tered the  Major,  when  he  had  drunk  the  vodka 
and  taken  a  bite  of  rye  bread.  "Yesterday  I 
drank  a  little  Chikhir,  and  now  I  have  a  head- 
ache. .  .  .  Well,  I'm  ready,"  said  he,  and 
went  to  the  parlour,  into  which  Butler  had 
already  shown  Hadji  Murad  and  the  officer  who 
accompanied  him. 

The  officer  handed  the  Major  orders  from  the 
commander  of  the  Left  Flank,  to  the  effect  that 
he  should  receive  Hadji  Mur^d,  and  should 
allow  him  to  have  intercourse  with  the  moun- 
taineers through  spies,  but  was  on  no  account 
to  let  him  leave  the  fort  without  a  convoy  of 
Cossacks. 

Having  read  the  order,  the  Major  looked  in- 
tently at  Hadji  Murad,  and  again  scrutinised 
the  paper.  After  passing  his  eyes  several 
times  from  one  to  the  other  in  this  manner,  be 
at  last  fixed  them  on  Hadji  Murad  and  said : 

'.'Yakshi,  Bek;  yalzslii!"  (Very  well,  sir,  very 


210  HADJI   MUR AD 

well!)  Let  him  stay  here,  and  tell  him  I  have 
orders  not  to  let  him  out — and  that  what  is 
commanded  is  sacred!  Well,  Butler,  where  do 
you  think  we'd  better  lodge  him?  Shall  we  put 
him  in  the  office?" 

Butler  had  not  time  to  answer  before  Mary 
Dmitrievna — who  had  come  from  the  kitchen 
and  was  standing  in  the  doorway — said  to  the 
Major, — 

"Why?  Keep  him  here!  We  will  give  him 
the  guest  chamber  and  the  storeroom.  Then 
at  any  rate  he  will  be  within  sight,"  said  she, 
glancing  at  Hadji  Murad;  but  meeting  his  eyes 
she  turned  quickly  away. 

"Well,  you  know,  I  think  Mary  Dmitrievna 
is  right,"  said  Butler. 

"Now  then,  now  then;  get  away!  Women 
have  no  business  here,"  said  the  Major, 
frowning. 

During  the  whole  of  this  discussion,  Hadji 
Murad  sat  with  his  hand  on  the  hilt  of  his  dag- 
ger, and  a  faint  smile  of  contempt  on  his  lips. 
He  said  it  was  all  the  same  to  him  where  he 
lodged,  and  that  he  wanted  nothing  but  what 
the  Sirdar  had  permitted — namely  to  have  com- 


HADJI   MUR  AD  211 

municatiou  with  the  mountaineers;  and  that 
he  therefore  wished  that  they  should  be  allowed 
to  come  to  him. 

The  Major  said  this  should  be  done,  and  asked 
Butler  to  entertain  the  visitors  till  something- 
could  be  got  for  them  to  eat,  and  their  rooms 
could  be  prepared.  Meantime  he  himself  would 
go  across  to  the  office,  to  write  what  was  neces- 
sary, and  to  give  some  orders. 

Hadji  Murad's  relations  with  his  new 
acquaintances  were  at  once  very  clearly  de- 
fined. From  the  first  he  was  repelled  by,  and 
felt  contempt  for,  the  Major,  to  whom  he  always 
behaved  very  haughtily.  Mary  Dmitrievna, 
who  prepared  and  served  up  his  food,  pleased 
him  particularly.  He  liked  her  simplicity,  and 
especially  the — to  him — foreign  type  of  beauty, 
and  he  was  influenced  by  the  attraction  she  felt 
towards  him  and  unconsciously  conveyed.  He 
tried  not  to  look  at  her  or  speak  to  her;  but  his 
eves  involuntarilv  turned  towards  her  and  fol- 
lowed  her  movements.  With  Butler,  from 
their  first  acquaintance,  he  immediately  made 
friends,  and  talked  much  and  willingly  with 
him  about  his  life,  telling  him  of  his  own,  and 


212  HADJI   MUR  AD 

commimicating  to  him  the  news  the  spies 
brought  him  of  his  family's  condition;  and  even 
consulting  him  about  how  he  ought  to  act. 

The  news  he  received  through  the  spies  was 
not  good.  During  the  first  four  days  of  his 
stay  in  the  fort  they  came  to  see  him  twice,  and 
both  times  brought  bad  news. 


< 


XIX 

Hadji  Murad's  family  had  been  removed  to 
Vedeno  soon  after  his  desertion  to  the  Rus- 
sians, and  were  there  kept  under  guard,  await- 
ing Shamil's  decision.  The  women:  his  old 
mother  Patimat,  and  his  two  wives  with  their 
five  little  children,  were  kept  under  guard  in  the 
sdklya  of  the  officer,  Ibrahim  Raschid;  while 
Hadji  Murad's  son,  Yusuf,  a  youth  of  eighteen, 
was  put  in  prison:  that  is,  into  a  pit  more  than 
seven  feet  deep,  together  with  seven  criminals 
who  like  himself  were  awaiting  a  decision  as 
to  their  fate. 

The  decision  was  delayed,  because  Shamil 
was  away  on  a  campaign  against  the  Russians. 

On  6  January  1852,  he  returned  to  Vedeno, 
after  a  battle  in  which,  according  to  the  Rus- 
sians, he  had  been  vanquished,  and  had  fled  to 
Vedeno;  but  in  which,  according  to  him  and  all 
the  murids,  he  had  been  victorious,  and  had 
repulsed  the  Russians.     In  this  battle  he  him- 

213 


214  HADJI    MUR  AD 

self  fired  bis  rifle — a  thing  he  seldom  did — and, 
drawing  his  sword,  would  have  charged  straight 
at  the  Russians,  had  not  the  miirids  who  accom- 
panied him  held  him  back.  Two  of  them  were 
killed  on  the  spot,  at  Shamil's  side. 

It  was  noon  when  Shamil — surrounded  by  a 
party  of  mnrids  who  caracoled  around  him,  fir- 
ing their  rifles  and  pistols  and  continually  sing- 
ing Lya  illy  ah  il  AlloJi! — rode  up  to  his  place  of 
residence. 

All  the  inhabitants  of  the  large  aoid  were  in 
the  street  or  on  their  roofs  to  meet  their  ruler; 
and  as  a  sign  of  triumph  they  also  fired 
off  rifles  and  pistols.  Shamil  rode  a  white 
arab  steed,  which  pulled  at  its  bit  as  it  ap- 
proached the  house.  The  horse's  equipment 
was  of  the  simplest,  without  gold  or  silver  orna- 
ments, a  delicately  worked  red  leather  bridle 
with  a  stripe  down  the  middle,  metal  cup- 
shaped  stirrups,  and  a  red  saddle-cloth  show- 
ing a  little  from  under  the  saddle.  The  Imam 
wore  a  brown  cloth  cloak,  lined  with  black  fur 
showing  at  the  neck  and  sleeves,  and  was  tightly 
girded  round  his  thin  long  waist  with  a  black 
strap  which  held  a  dagger.     On  his  head  he 


A  Circassian. 


HADJI   MURAD  215 

wore  a  tall  cap  with  flat  crown  and  black  tassel ; 
round  it  was  wound  a  white  turban,  one  end  of 
which  hung  down  on  his  neck.  He  wore  green 
slippers  and  black  leggings,  trimmed  with  plain 
braid. 

In  fact,  the  Imam  wore  nothing  bright — no 
gold  or  silver— and  his  tall  erect  powerful 
figure,  clothed  in  garments  without  any  orna- 
ments, surrounded  by  murids  with  gold  and 
silver  on  their  clothes  and  weapons,  produced 
on  the  people  just  the  impression  and  influence 
that  he  desired  and  knew  how  to  produce.  His 
pale  face,  framed  by  a  closely-trimmed  reddish 
beard,  with  his  small  eyes  always  screwed  up, 
was  as  immovable  as  though  hewn  out  of  stone. 
As  he  rode  through  the  aoul  he  felt  the  gaze  of 
a  thousand  eyes  turned  eagerly  on  him,  but  his 
eyes  looked  at  no  one. 

Hadji  Murad's  wives  had  come  out  into  the 
penthouse  with  the  rest  of  the  inmates  of  the 
sdldya,  to  see  the  Imam's  entry.  Only  Pati- 
m^t,  Hadji  Murad's  old  mother  did  not  go  out, 
but  remained  sitting  on  the  floor  of  the  saklya 
with  her  grey  hair  down,  her  long  arms  encir- 
cling her  thin  knees,  blinking  with  her  scorch- 


216  HADJI    MUR  AD 

ing  black  eyes  as  she  watched  the  dying  embers 
in  the  fireplace.  She,  like  her  son,  had  always 
hated  Shamil;  and  now  she  hated  him  more 
than  ever,  and  did  not  wish  to  see  him.  Neither 
did  Hadji  Murad's  son  see  Shamil 's  triumphal 
entry.  Sitting  in  his  dark  and  fetid  pit,  he  only 
heard  the  firing  and  singing,  and  endured  tor- 
tures such  as  can  only  be  felt  by  the  young  who 
are  full  of  vitality  and  deprived  of  freedom. 
He  only  saw  his  unfortunate  dirty  and  ex- 
hausted fellow  prisoners — embittered,  and  for 
the  most  part  filled  with  hatred  of  one  another. 
He  now  passionately  envied  those  who,  enjoying 
fresh  air  and  light  and  freedom,  caracoled  on 
fiery  steeds  around  their  chief,  shooting  and 
heartily  singing:  Lya  ilhjah  il  Allah! 

When  he  had  crossed  the  aoiil,  Shamil  rode 
into  the  large  courtyard  adjoining  the  inner 
court  where  his  seraglio  was.  Two  armed 
Lesghians  met  him  at  the  open  gates  of  this 
outer  court,  which  was  crowded  with  people. 
Some  had  come  from  distant  parts  about  their 
own  affairs;  some  had  come  with  petitions; 
and  some  had  been  summoned  by  Shamil  to  be 
tried  and  sentenced.     As  Shamil  rode  in,  all  re- 


HADJI   MUR  AD  217 

spectfully  saluted  the  Imjim  with  their  hands 
on  their  breasts.  Some  knelt  down  and  re- 
mained on  their  knees  while  he  rode  across  the 
court  from  the  outer  to  the  inner  gates. 
Though  he  recognised  among  the  people  who 
waited  in  the  court  many  whom  he  disliked, 
and  many  tedious  petitioners  who  wanted  liis 
attention,  Shamil  passed  them  all  with  the  same 
immovable  stony  expression  on  his  face,  and 
having  entered  the  inner  court,  dismounted  at 
the  penthouse  in  front  of  his  apartment,  to  the 
left  of  the  gate.  He  was  worn  out,  mentally 
rather  than  physically,  with  the  strain  of  the 
campaign — for  in  spite  of  the  public  declara- 
tion that  he  had  been  victorious,  he  knew  very 
well  that  his  campaign  had  been  unsuccessful; 
that  many  Chechen  aoids  had  been  burnt  down 
and  ruined,  and  that  the  unstable  and  fickle  Che- 
chens were  wavering,  and  those  nearest  the  bor- 
der line  were  ready  to  go  over  to  the  Russians. 
All  this  oppressed  him,  and  had  to  be  dealt 
with;  but  at  that  moment  Shamil  did  not  wish 
to  think  at  all.  He  only  desired  one  thing:  rest, 
and  the  delights  of  family  life,  and  the  caresses 
of   his    favourite   wife,    the    eighteen-year-old. 


218  HADJI   MUR AD 

black-eyed,  quick-footed  Aminal,  who  at  that 
very  moment  was  close  at  hand  behind  the  fence 
that  divided  the  inner  court  and  separated  the 
men's  from  the  women's  quarters  (Shamil  felt 
sure  she  was  there  with  his  other  wives,  looking 
through  a  chink  in  the  fence  while  he  dis- 
mounted), l)ut  not  only  was  it  impossible  for 
him  to  go  to  her,  he  could  not  even  lie  down  on 
his  feather  cushions  and  rest  from  his  fatigues, 
but  had  first  of  all  to  perform  the  mid-day  rites, 
for  which  he  had  just  then  not  the  least  inclina- 
tion, but  which — as  the  religious  leader  of  the 
people — he  could  not  omit,  and  which  more- 
over, were  as  necessary  to  him  himself  as  his 
daily  food.  So  he  performed  his  ablutions  and 
said  his  prayers,  and  summoned  those  who  were 
waiting  for  him. 

The  first  to  enter  was  Jemal  Eddin,  his  fath- 
er-in-law and  teacher,  a  tall  grey-haired  good- 
looking  old  man,  with  a  beard  white  as  snow 
and  a  rosy  red  face.  He  said  a  prayer,  and  be- 
gan questioning  Shamil  about  the  incidents  of 
the  campaign,  and  telling  him  what  had  hap- 
pened in  the  mountains  during  his  absence. 

Among  events  of  many  kinds — murders  con- 


HADJI   MURAD  219 

nected  with  blood-reuds,  cattle-stealing,  jjeople 
accused  of  disobeying  the  Tarikat  (smoking 
and  drinking  wine) — Jenial  Eddin  related  how 
Hadji  ]\linad  had  sent  men  to  bring  his  family 
over  to  the  Russians,  but  that  this  had  been 
detected,  and  the  family  had  been  brought  to 
Vedeno,  where  they  were  kept  under  guard  and 
awaited  the  Imam's  decision.  In  the  next 
room,  the  guest-chamber,  the  Elders  were  as- 
sembled to  discuss  all  these  affairs,  and  Jemal 
Eddin  advised  Shamil  to  finish  with  them  and 
let  them  go  that  same  day,  as  they  had  already 
been  waiting  three  days  for  him. 

After  eating  his  dinner — served  to  him  in  his 
room  by  Zeidat,  a  dark  sharp-nosed  disagree- 
able-looking woman,  whom  he  did  not  love  but 
who  was  his  eldest  wife — Shamil  passed  into 
the  guest-chamber. 

The  six  old  men  who  made  up  his  Council — 
white,  grey,  or  red-bearded,  with  tall  caps  on 
their  heads,  some  with  turbans  and  some  with- 
out, wearing  new  heslimets  and  Circassian 
coats  girdled  with  straps  to  which  hung  their 
daggers — rose  to  greet  him  on  his  entrance. 
Shamil  towered  a  head  above  them  all.     He,  as 


220  HADJI   MUR  AD 

well  as  all  tlie  others,  lifted  his  hands,  palms 
upwards,  closed  his  eyes  and  recited  a  prayer, 
and  then  stroked  his  face  downwards  with  both 
hands,  uniting  them  at  the  end  of  his  beard. 
Having  done  this,  they  all  sat  down,  Shamil  on 
a  larger  cushion  than  the  others,  and  discussed 
the  various  cases  before  them. 

In  the  case  of  the  criminals,  the  decisions 
were  given  according  to  the  Shariiit ;  two  were 
sentenced  to  have  a  hand  cut  off  for  stealing; 
one  man  to  be  beheaded  for  murder ;  and  three 
were  pardoned.  Then  they  came  to  the  jDrin- 
cipal  business — how  to  stop  the  Chechens  from 
going  over  to  the  Eussians.  To  counteract 
that  tendency,  Jemal  Eddin  drew  up  the  follow- 
ing proclamation: — 

*'I  wish  you  eternal  peace  with  God  the  Al- 
mighty ! 

'*I  hear  that  the  Russians  flatter  you  and 
invite  you  to  surrender  to  them.  Do  not  be- 
lieve them,  and  do  not  surrender,  but  endure. 
If  ye  be  not  rewarded  for  it  in  this  life,  ye  shall 
receive  your  reward  in  the  life  to  come.  Re- 
member what  happened  before,  when  the}^  took 
your  arms  from  you !     If  God  had  not  brought 


HADJI   MUR  AD  221 

you  to  reason  then,  in  1840,  ye  would  now  he 
soldiers,  and  your  wives  would  no  longer  wear 
trousers  and  would  be  dishonoured. 

"Judge  of  the  future  by  the  past.  It  is  bet- 
ter to  die  in  enmity  with  the  Russians  than  to 
live  with  the  Unbelievers.  Endure  for  a  little 
while,  and  I  will  come  with  the  Koran  and  the 
sword,  and  will  lead  you  against  the  enemy. 
But  now  I  strictly  command  j^ou  not  only  to 
entertain  no  intention,  but  not  even  a  thought 
of  submitting  to  the  Russians!" 

Shamil  approved  this  proclamation,  signed 
it,  and  had  it  sent  out. 

After  this  business  they  considered  Hadji 
Murad's  case.  This  was  of  the  utmost  impor- 
tance to  Shamil.  Although  he  did  not  wish  to 
admit  it,  he  knew  that  if  Hadji  MurAd,  with  his 
agility  boldness,  and  courage  had  been  with 
him,  what  had  now  happened  in  Chechnya 
would  not  have  occurred.  It  would  therefore 
be  well  to  make  it  up  with  Hadji  Murad,  and 
again  have  the  benefit  of  his  services;  but  as 
this  was  not  possible,  it  would  never  do  to  al- 
low him  to  help  the  Russians ;  and  therefore  he 
must  be  enticed  back  and  killed.     They  might 


222  HADJI   MUR AD 

accomplish  this  either  by  sending  a  man  to 
Tiflis  who  would  kill  him  there,  or  by  inducing 
him  to  come  back,  and  then  killing  him.  The 
only  means  of  doing  the  latter  was  by  making 
use  of  his  family,  and  especially  his  son,  whom, 
as  Shamil  knew,  Hadji  Murad  loved  passion- 
ately.   Therefore  thev  must  act  through  the  son. 

When  the  councillors  had  talked  all  this  over, 
Shamil  closed  his  eyes  and  sat  silent. 

The  councillors  knew  that  this  meant  that 
he  was  listening  to  the  voice  of  the  Prophet, 
who  spoke  to  him  and  told  him  what  to  do. 

After  five  minutes  of  solemn  silence  Shamil 
opened  his  eyes,  and  narrowing  them  more  than 
usual,  said, — 

''Bring  Hadji  Murad 's  son  to  me." 

"He  is  here,"  replied  Jemal  Eddin;  and  in 
fact  Yusuf,  Hadji  Murad 's  son,  thin  pale  tat- 
tered and  evil-smelling,  but  still  handsome  in 
face  and  figure,  with  black  eyes  that  burnt  like 
his  grandmother  Patimat's,  was  already  stand- 
ing by  the  gate  of  the  outside  court,  waiting  to 
be  called  in. 

Yusuf  did  not  share  his  father's  feelings 
towards  Shamil.    He  did  not  know  all  that  had 


HADJI   MURAD  223 

happened  in  the  past,  or  if  lie  knew  it,  not  hav- 
ing lived  through  it,  he  still  did  not  understand 
why  his  father  was  so  obstinately  hostile  to 
Shamil.  To  him,  who  wanted  only  one  thing 
— to  continue  living  the  easy  loose  life  that  as 
the  N (lib's  son  he  had  led  in  Khunzakh — it 
seemed  quite  unnecessary  to  be  at  enmity  with 
Shamil.  Out  of  defiance  and  a  spirit  of  contra- 
diction to  his  father,  he  particularly  admired 
Shamil,  and  shared  the  ecstatic  adoration  with 
which  he  was  regarded  in  the  mountains.  With 
a  peculiar  feeling  of  tremulous  veneration  for 
the  Imam,  he  now  entered  the  guest-chamber. 
As  he  stopped  by  the  door  he  met  the  steady 
gaze  of  Shamil's  half-closed  eyes.  He  paused 
for  a  moment,  and  then  approached  Shamil  and 
kissed  his  large,  long-fingered  hand. 

*'Thou  art  Hadji  Murad's  son?" 

"I  am.  Imam." 

**Thou  knowest  what  he  has  done?" 

**I  know.  Imam,  and  deplore  it." 

** Canst  thou  write?" 

**I  was  preparing  myself  to  be  a  Mullah — " 

''Then  write  to  thy  father  that  if  he  will  re- 
turn to  me  now,  before  the  Feast  of  Bairam, 


224  HADJI   MURAD 

I  will  forgive  him,  and  everything  shall  be  as 
it  was  before ;  but  if  not,  and  if  he  remains  with 
the  Russians — "  and  Shamil  frowned  sternly, 
''I  will  give  thy  grandmother,  thy  mother,  and 
the  rest,  to  the  different  aoiils,  and  thee  I  will 
behead!" 

Not  a  muscle  of  Yusuf 's  face  stirred,  and  he 
bowed  his  head  to  show  that  he  understood 
Shamil's  words. 

''Write  that,  and  give  it  to  my  messenger." 

Shamil  ceased  speaking,  and  looked  at  Yusuf 
for  a  long  time  in  silence. 

''Write  that  I  have  had  pity  on  thee  and  will 
not  kill  thee,  but  will  put  out  thine  eyes  as  I 
do  to  all  traitors!    .     .     .     Go!" 

While  in  Shamil's  presence  Yusuf  appeared 
calm;  but  when  he  had  been  led  out  of  the 
guest-chamber  he  rushed  at  his  attendant, 
snatched  the  man's  dagger  from  its  sheath,  and 
wished  to  stab  himself;  but  he  was  seized  by 
the  arms,  bound,  and  led  back  to  the  pit. 

That  evening  at  dusk,  after  he  had  finished 
his  evening  prayers,  Shamil  put  on  a  white  fur- 
lined  cloak,  and  passed  out  to  the  other  side 
of  the  fence  where  his  wives  lived,  and  went 


HADJI   MURAD  225 

straight  to  Aminal's  room;  but  he  did  not  find 
her  there.  She  was  with  the  older  wives. 
Then  Shamil,  trying  to  remain  unseen,  hid  be- 
hind the  door  and  stood  waiting  for  her.  But 
Aminal  was  angry  with  him  because  he  had 
given  some  silk  stuff  to  Zeidat,  and  not  to  her. 
She  saw  him  come  out  and  go  into  her  room 
looking  for  her,  and  she  purposely  kept  away. 
She  stood  a  long  time  at  the  door  of  Zeidat 's 
room,  softly  laughing  at  Shamil 's  white  figure 
that  kept  coming  in  and  out  of  her  room. 

Having  waited  for  her  in  vain,  Shamil  re- 
turned to  his  own  apartments  when  it  was  al- 
ready time  for  the  midnight  prayers. 


XX 


Hadji  Murad  had  been  a  week  in  the  Major's 
house  at  the  fort.  Although  Mary  Dmitrievna 
quari-elled  with  the  shaggy  Khanefi  (Hadji 
Murad  had  only  brought  two  of  his  murids, 
Khanefi  and  Eldar,  with  him)  and  had  turned 
him  out  of  her  kitchen — for  which  he  nearly 
killed  her — she  evidently  felt  a  particular  re- 
spect and  sympathy  for  Hadji  Murad.  She 
now  no  longer  served  him  his  dinner,  having 
handed  over  that  duty  to  Eldar,  but  she  seized 
every  opportunity  of  seeing  him  and  rendering 
him  service.  She  always  took  the  liveliest  in- 
terest in  the  negotiations  about  his  family, 
knew  how  manv  wives  and  children  he  had,  and 
their  ages;  and  each  time  a  spy  came  to  see 
him,  she  inquired  as  best  she  could  into  the 
results  of  the  negotiations. 

Butler  during  that  week  had  become  quite 
friendly  with  Hadji  Murad.  Sometimes  the  lat- 
ter came  to  Butler's  room;  sometimes  Butler 
went  to  Hadji  Murad 's.     Sometimes  they  con- 

226 


HADJI   MURAD  227 

versed  by  the  help  of  the  interpreter;  and  some- 
tinies  got  on  as  best  they  could  with  signs  and 
especially  with  smiles. 

Hadji  j\Iurad  had  evidently  taken  a  fancy  to 
Butler.  This  could  be  gathered  from  Eldar's 
relations  with  the  latter.  When  Butler  entered 
Hadji  Murad's  room,  Ehlar  met  him  with  a 
pleased  smile,  showing  his  glittering  teeth,  and 
hurried  to  put  down  a  cushion  for  him  to  sit 
on,  and  to  relieve  him  of  his  sword  if  he  was 
wearing  one. 

Butler  also  got  to  know  and  became  friendly 
with  the  shaggy  Khanefi,  Hadji  Murad's  sworn 
brother.  Khanefi  knew  many  mountain  songs, 
and  sang  them  well.  To  please  Butler,  Hadji 
Murad  often  made  Khanefi  sing,  choosing  the 
songs  which  he  considered  best.  Khanefi  had  a 
high  tenor  voice,  and  sang  with  extraordinary 
clearness  and  expression.  One  of  the  songs 
Hadji  Murad  specially  liked,  impressed  Butler 
by  its  solemnly  mournful  tone,  and  he  asked 
the  interpreter  to  translate  it. 

The  subject  of  the  song  was  the  very  blood- 
feud  that  had  existed  between  Khanefi  and 
Hadji  Murad.     It  ran  as  follows: — 


228  HADJI   MURAD 

"The  earth  will  dry  on  my  grave, 

Mother,  my  jMother! 
And  thou  wilt  forget  me, 
And  over  me  rank  grasses  wave, 

Father,  my  Father! 
Nor  wilt  thou  regret  me ! 
When  tears  cease  thy  dark  eyes  to  lave, 

Sister,  dear  Sister ! 
No  more  will  grief  fret  thee! 

"But  thou  my  Brother  the  Elder,  wilt  never  forget, 

With  vengeance  denied  me ! 
And  thou,  my  Brother  the  Younger,  wilt  ever  regret. 

Till  thou  liest  beside  me ! 

"Hotly   thou   camest,    O    death-bearing   ball   that   I 
spurned, 
For  thou  wast  my  Slave ! 
And  thou,  black  earth,  that  battle-steed  trampled  and 
churned. 
Wilt  cover  my  grave ! 

"Cold  art  Thou,  0  Death,  yet  I  was  thy  Lord  and 

thy  Master! 
My  body  sinks  fast  to  earth ;  my  Soul  to  Heaven  flies 

faster." 


HADJI   MUR  AD  229 

Hadji  Murad  always  listened  to  this  song 
with  closed  eyes,  and  when  it  ended  on  a  long 
gradually  dying  note  he  always  remarked  in 
Russian, — 

''Good  song!    Wise  song!" 

After  Hadji  Murad 's  arrival  and  Butler's  in- 
timacy with  him  and  his  murids,  the  poetry  of 
the  energetic  life  of  the  mountains  took  a  still 
stronger  hold  on  Butler.  He  procured  for  him- 
self a  heshmet,  a  Circassian  coat  and  leggings, 
and  imagined  himself  a  mountaineer  living  the 
life  those  people  lived. 

On  the  day  of  Hadji  Murad 's  departure,  the 
Major  invited  several  officers  to  see  him  off. 
They  were  sitting,  some  at  the  table  where 
Mary  Dmitrievna  was  pouring  out  tea,  some  at 
another  table  on  which  stood  vodka  Chikhir 
and  light  refreshments,  when  Hadji  Murad, 
dressed  for  the  journey,  came  limping  with  soft 
rapid  footsteps  into  the  room. 

They  all  rose  and  shook  hands  with  him.  The 
Major  offered  him  a  seat  on  the  divan,  but 
Hadji  Murad  thanked  him  and  sat  down  on  a 
chair  by  the  window. 

The  silence  that  followed  his  entrance  did 


230  HADJI    MUR  AD 

not  at  all  abash  him.  He  looked  attentively  at 
all  the  faces  and  fixed  an  indifferent  gaze  on 
the  tea-table  with  the  samovar  and  refresh- 
ments. Petrovsky,  a  lively  officer  who  now  met 
Hadji  Murad  for  the  first  time,  asked  him 
through  the  interpreter  whether  he  liked  Tifiis. 

"Alya!"  he  replied. 

"He  says,  'Yes,'  "  translated  the  interpreter. 

''What  did  he  like  there?" 

Hadji  Murad  said  something  in  reply. 

"He  liked  the  theatre  best  of  all." 

"And  how  did  he  like  the  ball  at  the  house 
of  the  Commander-in-chief  I" 

Hadji  Murad  frowned.  "Every  nation  has 
its  own  customs !  Our  women  do  not  dress  in 
such  a  way,"  said  he,  glancing  at  Mary  Dmitri- 
evna. 

"Well,  didn't  he  like  it?" 

"We  have  a  proverb,"  said  Hadji  Mur^d  to 
the  interpreter,  "  'The  dog  gave  meat  to  the 
ass,  and  the  ass  gave  hay  to  the  dog,  and  both 
went  hungry,'  "  and  he  smiled.  "It's  own  cus- 
toms seem  good  to  each  nation." 

The  conversation  went  no  further.  Some  of 
the  officers  took  tea ;  some,  other  refreshments. 


HADJI    MUR  AD  231 

Hadji  Murad  accepted  the  tumbler  of  tea  of- 
fered him,  and  put  it  down  before  him. 

''Won't  you  have  cream  and  a  bun?"  asked 
Mary  Dmitrievna,  offering  them  to  him. 

Hadji  Murad  bowed  his  head. 

''Well,  I  suppose  it  is  good-bye!"  said  But- 
ler, touching  his  knee.  "When  shall  we  meet 
again!" 

"Good-bye,  good-bye!"  said  Hadji  Murad 
with  a  smile,  in  Russian,  "Kundk  huhig. — 
Strong  kiindk  to  thee!  Time — aijda — go!" 
and  he  jerked  his  head  in  the  direction  in  which 
he  had  to  go. 

Eldar  appeared  in  the  doorway  carrying 
some  large  white  thing  across  his  shoulder  and 
a  sword  in  his  hand.  Hadji  Murad  beckoned 
him  to  himself,  and  Eldar  came  with  his  big 
strides  and  handed  him  a  white  hui'ka  and  the 
sword.  Hadji  Murad  rose,  took  the  burka, 
threw  it  over  his  arm,  and,  saying  something 
to  the  interpreter,  handed  it  to  Mary  Dmitri- 
evna. 

The  interpreter  said,  "He  says  thou  hast 
praised  the  burka,  so  accept  it." 

"Oh,  why?"  said  Mary  Dmitrievna,  blushing. 


232  HADJI   MUR  AD 

''It  is  necessary.  Like  Adam,"  said  Hadji 
Munid. 

''Well,  thank  you,"  said  Mary  Dmitrievna, 
taking  the  hurka.  "God  grant  that  you  rescue 
your  son,"  added  she.  "Ulan  yakshi,"  said 
she.    "Tell  him  that  I  wish  him  success  in  re- 

« 

leasing  his  son." 

Hadji  Murad  glanced  at  Mary  Dmitrievna, 
and  nodded  his  head  approvingly.  Then  he 
took  the  sword  from  Eldar  and  handed  it  to 
the  Major.  The  Major  took  it,  and  said  to  the 
interpreter, — 

"Tell  him  to  take  my  chestnut  gelding.  I 
have  nothing  else  to  give  him." 

Hadji  Munid  waved  his  hand  in  front  of  his 
face  to  show  that  he  did  not  want  anvthing  and 
would  not  accept  it.  Then,  pointing  first  to 
the  mountains  and  then  to  his  heart,  he  went 
out. 

Every  one  followed  him  as  far  as  the  door. 
The  officers  who  remained  inside  the  room  drew 
the  sword  from  its  scabbard,  examined  its  blade, 
and  decided  that  it  was  a  real  Gurda.^ 

Butler    accompanied    Hadji    Murad    to    the 

lA  highly-prized  quality  of  blade. 


HADJI   MUR  AD  233 

porch,  and  then  something  very  unexpected  oc- 
curred which  might  have  ended  fatally  for 
Hadji  Murad,  had  it  not  been  for  his  quick  ob- 
servation, determination,  and  agility. 

The  inhabitants  of  the  Kumiikh  aoiil,  Tash- 
Kichu,  which  was  friendly  to  the  Russians, 
greatly  respected  Hadji  Murad,  and  had  often 
come  to  the  fort  merely  to  look  at  the  famous 
Ndib.  They  had  sent  messengers  to  him  three 
days  previously  to  ask  him  to  visit  their  mosque 
on  the  Friday.  But  the  Kumiikh  princes  who 
lived  in  Tash-Kichu  hated  Hadji  Murad  be- 
cause there  was  a  blood  feud  between  them; 
and  on  hearing  of  this  invitation  they  announced 
to  the  people  that  they  would  not  allow  him  to 
enter  the  mosque.  The  people  became  excited, 
and  a  fight  occurred  between  them  and  the 
princes'  supporters.  The  Russian  authorities 
pacified  the  mountaineers  and  sent  word  to 
Hadji  Murad  not  to  go  to  the  mosque. 

Hadji  Mun'id  did  not  go,  and  every  one  sup- 
posed that  the  matter  was  settled. 

But  at  the  very  moment  of  his  departure, 
when  he  came  out  into  the  porch  before  which 
the  horses   stood  waiting,   Arslan   Khan — one 


234  HADJI   MUR  AD 

of  the  Kumukh  princes  and  an  acquaintance  of 
Butler's  and  of  the  Major's — rode  up  to  the 
house. 

When  he  saw  Hadji  Murad  he  snatched  a 
pistol  from  his  belt  and  aimed  at  him;  but  be- 
fore he  could  fire,  Hadji  Murad — in  spite  of  his 
lameness — rushed  down  from  the  porch  like  a 
cat  towards  Arslan  Khan,  who  fired  and 
missed. 

Seizing  Arslan  Khan's  horse  by  the  bridle 
with  one  hand,  Hadji  Murad  drew  his  dagger 
with  the  other  and  shouted  something  to  him 
in  Tartar. 

Butler  and  Eldar  both  ran  at  once  towards 
the  enemies,  and  caught  them  by  the  arms.  The 
Major,  who  had  heard  the  shot,  also  came  out. 

''What  do  you  mean  by  it,  Arslan — starting 
such  a  horrid  business  on  my  premises!"  said 
he,  when  he  heard  what  had  happened.  "It's 
not  right,  friend!  'To  the  foe  in  the  field,  you 
need  not  yield!' — but  to  start  this  kind  of 
slaughter  in  my  place — !" 

Arslan  Khan,  a  little  man  with  black  mous- 
taches, got  off  his  horse,  pale  and  trembling, 
looked  angrily  at  Hadji  Murad,  and  went  into 
the    house    with    the    Major.     Hadji    Murad, 


HADJI   MUR  AD  235 

breatbiug  heavily  and  smiling,  returned  to  the 
horses. 

' '  Why  did  he  want  to  kill  him  ? ' '  Butler  asked 
the  interpreter, 

"He  says  it  is  a  law  of  theirs,"  the  inter- 
preter translated  Hadji  Murad's  reply.  "Ars- 
lan  must  avenge  a  relation's  blood,  and  so  he 
tried  to  kill  him." 

*'And  supposing  he  overtakes  him  on  the 
road f ' '  asked  Butler. 

Hadji  Murad  smiled. 

''Well,  if  he  kills  me  it  will  prove  that  such 
is  Allah's  will.  .  .  .  Good-bye,"  he  said 
again  in  Russian,  taking  his  horse  by  the  with- 
ers. Glancing  round  at  everybody  who  had 
come  out  to  see  him  off,  his  eyes  rested  kindly 
on  Mary  Dmitrievna. 

'* Good-bye,  my  lass,"  said  he  to  her.  *'I 
thank  you." 

"God  help  you — God  help  you  to  rescue  your 
family!"  repeated  Mary  Dmitrievna. 

He  did  not  understand  her  words,  but  felt 
her  sympathy  for  him,  and  nodded  to  her. 

"Mind,  don't  forget  your  hunuk/'  said  But- 
ler. 

"Tell  him  I  am  his  true  friend  and  will  never 


236  HADJI   MURAD 

forget  liim,"  answered  Hadji  Munid  to  the  in- 
terpreter; and  in  spite  of  his  short  leg  he 
swung  himself  lightly  and  quickly,  barely  touch- 
ing the  stirrup,  into  the  high  saddle,  automat- 
ically feeling  for  his  dagger  and  adjusting  his 
sword.  Then,  with  that  peculiarly  proud  look 
with  which  only  a  Caucasian  hillsman  sits  his 
horse — as  though  he  were  one  with  it — he  rode 
away  from  the  Major's  house.  Khanefi  and 
Eldar  also  mounted,  and  having  taken  a 
friendly  leave  of  their  hosts  and  of  the  of- 
ficers, they  rode  off  at  a  trot,  following  their 
murshid. 

As  usual  after  any  one's  departure,  those 
who  remained  behind  began  to  discuss  them. 

'^Pluckj^  fellow!  Didn't  he  rush  at  Arslan 
Khan  like  a  wolf!     His  face  quite  changed!" 

^'But  he'll  be  up  to  tricks — he's  a  terrible 
rogue,  I  should  say,"  remarked  Petrovsky. 

''God  grant  there  were  more  Eussian  rogues 
of  such  a  kind ! ' '  suddenly  put  in  Mary  Dmitri- 
evna  with  vexation.  ''He  has  lived  a  week  with 
us,  and  we  have  seen  nothing  but  good  from 
him.  He  is  courteous  wise  and  just,"  she 
added. 


HADJI   MURAD  237 

''How  did  you  find  that  out?" 

''Well,  I  did  find  it  out!" 

''She's  quite  smitten,"  said  the  Major,  who 
had  just  entered  the  room  ;  ' '  and  that 's  a  fact ! ' ' 

"Well,  and  if  I  am  smitten?  What's  that 
to  you?  But  why  run  him  down  if  he's  a  good 
man?  Though  he's  a  Tartar,  he's  still  a  good 
man!" 

"Quite  true,  Mary  Dmitrievna,"  said  But- 
ler; "and  you're  quite  right  to  take  his  part!" 


XXI 

Life  in  our  advanced  forts  in  the  Chechen  lines 
went  on  as  usual.  Since  the  events  last  nar- 
rated there  had  been  two  alarms  when  the  com- 
panies were  called  out,  and  militiamen  galloped 
about;  but  both  times  the  mountaineers  who 
had  caused  the  excitement  got  away;  and  once 
at  Vozdvfzhensk  they  killed  a  Cossack,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  carrying  off  eight  Cossack  horses  that 
were  being  watered.  There  had  been  no  fur- 
ther raids  since  the  one  in  which  the  aoiil  was 
destroyed;  but  an  expedition  on  a  large  scale 
was  expected  in  consequence  of  the  appoint- 
ment of  a  new  Commander  of  the  Left  Flank, 
Prince  Baryatinsky.  He  was  an  old  friend  of 
the  Viceroy's,  and  had  been  in  command  of 
the  Kabarda  Regiment.  On  his  arrival  at 
Grozny  as  commander  of  the  whole  Left  Flank, 
he  at  once  mustered  a  detachment  to  continue 
to  carry  out  the  Tsar's  commands  as  communi- 
cated by  Chernyshov  to  Vorontsov.     The  de- 

238 


HADJI   MURAD  239 

tacliment  mustered  at  Vozdvizhensk  left  the 
fort,  and  took  up  a  position  towards  Kurin. 
The  troops  were  encamped  tliere,  and  were  fell- 
ing the  forest.  Young  Vorontsov  lived  in  a 
splendid  cloth  tent,  and  his  wife,  Mary  Vasil- 
evna,  often  came  to  the  camp  and  stayed  the 
night.  Baryatinsky's  relations  with  Mary 
Vasilevna  were  no  secret  to  any  one,  and  the 
officers  who  were  not  in  the  aristocratic  set, 
and  the  soldiers,  abused  her  in  coarse  terms — 
for  her  presence  in  camp  caused  them  to  be 
told  off  to  lie  in  ambush  at  night.  The  moun- 
taineers were  in  the  habit  of  bringing  guns 
within  range  and  firing  shells  at  the  camp. 
The  shells  generally  missed  their  aim,  and 
therefore  at  ordinary  times  no  special  meas- 
ures were  taken  to  prevent  such  firing;  but 
now,  men  were  placed  in  ambush  to  hinder  the 
mountaineers  from  injuring  or  frightening 
Mary  Vasilevna  with  their  cannons.  To  have 
to  be  always  lying  in  ambush  at  night  to  save 
a  lady  from  being  frightened,  offended  and  an- 
noyed them;  and  therefore  the  soldiers,  as  well 
as  the  officers  not  admitted  to  the  higher  soci- 
ety, called  Mary  Vasilevna  bad  names. 


240  HADJI   MURAD 

Butler,  having  obtained  leave  of  absence 
from  his  fort,  came  to  the  camp  to  visit  some 
old  messmates  from  the  cadet  corps  and  fellow- 
officers  of  the  Kurin  regiment,  who  were  serv- 
ing as  adjutants  and  orderly-officers.  "WTien  he 
first  arrived  he  had  a  very  good  time.  He  put 
up  in  Poltoratsky's  tent,  and  there  met  many 
acquaintances  who  gave  him  a  hearty  welcome. 
He  also  called  on  Vorontsov  whom  he  knew 
slightly,  having  once  served  in  the  same  regi- 
ment with  him.  Vorontsov  received  him  very 
kindly,  introduced  him  to  Prince  Baryatinsky, 
and  invited  him  to  the  farewell  dinner  he  was 
giving  in  honour  of  General  Kozlovsky,  who, 
until  Baryatinsky 's  arrival,  had  been  in  com- 
mand of  the  Left  Flank. 

The  dinner  was  magnificent.  Special  tents 
were  erected  in  a  line,  and  along  the  whole 
length  of  them  a  table  was  spread,  as  for  a 
dinner-party,  with  dinner-services  and  bottles. 
Everything  recalled  life  in  the  guards  in  Peters- 
burg. Dinner  was  served  at  two  o'clock.  In 
the  middle  on  one  side  sat  Kozlovsky;  on  the 
other,  Baryatinsky.  At  Kozlovsky 's  right  and 
left  hand  sat  the  Vorontsovs,  husband  and  wife. 


HADJI   MUR  AD  241 

All  along  tlie  table  on  both  sides  sat  the  of- 
ficers of  the  Kabarda  and  Kurin  regiments. 
Butler  sat  next  to  Poltoriitsky,  and  they  both 
chatted  merrily  and  drank  with  the  officers 
around  them.  When  the  roast  was  served  and 
the  orderlies  had  gone  round  and  filled  the 
champagne  glasses,  Poltonitsky,  with  real  anxi- 
iety,  said  to  Butler, — 

''Our  Kozlovsky  will  disgrace  himself!" 

''Why?" 

"Why,  he'll  have  to  make  a  speech,  and  what 
good  is  he  at  that?  .  .  .  Yes,  it's  not  as 
easy  as  capturing  entrenchments  under  fire ! 
And  with  a  lady  beside  him,  too,  and  these  aris- 
tocrats!" 

"Really  it's  painful  to  look  at  him,"  said  the 
officers  to  one  another.  And  now  the  solemn 
moment  had  arrived.  Baryatinsky  rose  and 
lifting  his  glass  addressed  a  short  speech  to 
Kozlovsky.  When  he  had  finished,  Kozlovsky 
— who  always  had  a  trick  of  using  the  word 
"how"  superfluously — rose  and  stammeringly 
began, — 

"In  compliance  with  the  august  will  of  his 
Majesty,  I  am  leaving  you — parting  from  you. 


242  H  A  D  J  1    M  U  R  A  D 

gentlemen,"  said  he,  "But  consider  me  as  al- 
ways remaining  among  you.  The  truth  of  the 
proverb,  how  'One  man  in  the  field  is  no  war- 
rior,' is  well  known  to  you,  gentlemen.  .  .  . 
Therefore,  how  every  reward  I  have  re- 
ceived .  .  .  how  all  the  benefits  showered 
on  me  by  the  great  generosity  of  our  sovereign 
the  Emperor  .  .  .  how  all  my  position — 
how  my  good  name  .  .  .  how  everything 
decidedly  .  .  .  how  .  .  ."  (here  his 
voice  trembled)  ".  .  .  how  I  am  indebted  to 
you  for  it,  to  you  alone,  my  friends!"  The 
wrinkled  face  puckered  up  still  more,  he  gave  a 
sob,  and  tears  came  into  his  eves.  "How  from 
my  heart  I  offer  you  my  sincerest,  heartfelt 
gratitude!" 

Kozlovsky  could  not  go  on,  but  turned  round 
and  began  to  embrace  the  officers.  The  Prin- 
cess hid  her  face  in  her  handkerchief.  The 
Prince  blinked,  with  his  mouth  drawn  awry. 
Many  of  the  officers'  eyes  grew  moist,  and  But- 
ler, who  had  hardly  known  Kozlovsky,  could 
also  not  restrain  his  tears.  He  liked  all  this 
very  much. 

Then  followed  other  toasts.     Bary^itinsky's, 


HADJI    MUR  AD  243 

Voroutsov's,  the  officers',  and  the  soldiers' 
healths  were  drunk,  and  the  visitors  left  the 
table  intoxicated  with  wine  and  with  the  mil- 
itary  elation  to  which  they  were  always  so 
prone.  The  weather  was  wonderful,  sunny  and 
calm,  and  the  air  fresh  and  bracing.  On  all 
sides  bonfires  crackled  and  songs  resounded. 
It  might  have  been  thought  that  everybody  was 
celebrating  some  joyful  event.  Butler  went  to 
Poltoratsky's  in  the  happiest  most  emotional 
mood.  Several  officers  had  gathered  there,  and 
a  card-table  was  set.  An  Adjutant  started  a 
bank  with  a  hundred  roubles.  Two  or  three 
times  Butler  left  the  tent  with  his  hand  grip- 
ping the  purse  in  his  trousers-pocket;  but  at 
last  he  could  resist  the  temptation  no  longer, 
and  despite  the  promsie  he  had  given  to  his 
brother  and  to  himself  not  to  play,  he  began  to 
bet.  Before  an  hour  was  past,  very  red,  per- 
spiring, and  soiled  with  chalk,  he  sat  with  both 
elbows  on  the  table  and  wrote  on  it — under 
cards  bent  for  "corners"  and  "transports" — 
the  figures  of  his  stakes.  He  had  already  lost 
so  much  that  he  was  afraid  to  count  up  what 
was  scored  against  him.     But  he  knew  without 


244  HADJIMURAD 

counting  that  all  the  pay  he  could  draw  in  ad- 
vance, added  to  the  value  of  his  horse,  would 
not  suffice  to  pay  what  the  Adjutant,  a  stranger 
to  him,  had  written  down  against  him.  He 
would  still  have  gone  on  playing,  but  the  Ad- 
jutant sternly  laid  down  the  cards  he  held  in 
his  large  clean  hands,  and  added  up  the  chalked 
figures  of  the  score  of  Butler's  losses.  Butler, 
confused,  began  to  make  excuses  for  being  un- 
able to  pay  the  whole  of  his  debt  at  once;  and 
said  he  would  send  it  from  home.  When  he 
said  this  he  noticed  that  everybody  pitied  him, 
and  that  they  all — even  Poltoratsky — avoided 
meeting  his  eye.  That  was  his  last  evening 
there.  He  need  only  have  refrained  from  play- 
ing, and  gone  to  the  Vorontsovs  who  had  in- 
vited him,  and  all  would  have  been  well,  thought 
he;  but  now  it  was  not  only  not  well,  but  ter- 
rible. 

Having  taken  leave  of  his  comrades  and  ac- 
quaintances he  rode  home  and  went  to  bed,  and 
slept  for  eighteen  hours  as  people  usually  sleep 
after  losing  heavily.  From  the  fact  that  he 
asked  her  to  lend  him  fifty  kopeks  to  tip  the 
Cossack  who  had  escorted  him,  and  from  his 


HADJI   MURAD  245 

sorrowful  looks  and  short  answers,  Mary 
Dmitrievna  guessed  that  he  had  lost  at  cards, 
and  she  reproached  the  Major  for  having  given 
him  leave  of  absence. 

When  he  woke  up  at  noon  next  day  and  re- 
membered the  situation  he  was  in,  he  longed 
again  to  plunge  into  the  oblivion  from  which 
he  had  just  emerged ;  but  it  was  impossible. 
Steps  had  to  be  taken  to  repay  the  four  hun- 
dred and  seventy  roubles  he  owed  to  the 
stranger.  The  first  step  he  took  was  to  write 
to  his  brother,  confessing  his  sin  and  implor- 
ing him,  for  the  last  time,  to  lend  him  five  hun- 
dred roubles  on  the  security  of  the  mill  that 
they  still  owned  in  common.  Then  he  wrote 
to  a  stingy  relative,  asking  her  to  lend  him  five 
hundred  roubles  at  whatever  rate  of  interest 
she  liked.  Finally  he  went  to  the  Major,  know- 
ing that  he — or  rather  Mary  Dmitrievna — had 
some  money,  and  asked  him  to  lend  him  five 
hundred  roubles. 

''I'd  let  you  have  them  at  once,"  said  the 
Major,  ''but  M^sha  won't!  These  women  are 
so  close-fisted — who  the  devil  can  understand 
them?     .     .     .     And  yet  you  must  get  out  of  it 


246  HADJI    MURAD 

somehow,  devil  take  him !     .     .     .    Hasn't  that 
brute  the  canteen-keeper  something?" 

But  it  was  no  use  tryiug  to  borrow  from  the 
canteen-keeper;  so  that  Butler's  salvation 
could  only  come  from  his  brother  or  from  his 
stingy  relative. 


XXII 

Not  having  attained  his  aim  in  Chechnya,  Hadji 
Murad  returned  to  Tiflis  and  went  every  day 
to  Vorontsov's;  and  whenever  he  could  obtain 
audience  he  implored  the  Viceroy  to  gather  to- 
gether the  mountaineer  prisoners  and  to  ex- 
change them  for  his  family.  He  said  that  un- 
les  that  were  done  his  hands  were  tied  and  he 
could  not  serve  the  Russians  and  destroy 
Shamil,  as  he  desired  to  do.  Vorontsov 
vaguely  promised  to  do  what  he  could,  but  put 
it  off,  saying  that  he  would  decide  when  Gen- 
eral Argutinsky  reached  Tiflis  and  he  could  talk 
the  matter  over  with  him. 

Then  Hadji  Murad  asked  Vorontsov  to  al- 
low him  to  go  to  live  for  a  while  in  Nukha,  a 
small  town  in  Transcaucasia,  where  he  thought 
he  could  better  carry  on  negotiations  about  his 
family  with  Shamil  and  with  the  people  who 
were  attached  to  himself.  Moreover,  Nukha 
being   a   Mohammedan    town,    had    a    mosque 

247 


248  HADJI   MUR  AD 

where  he  could  more  conveniently  perform  the 
rites  of  prayer  demanded  by  the  Mohammedan 
law.  Vorontsov  wrote  to  Petersburg  about  it, 
but  meanwhile  gave  Hadji  Murad  permission 
to  go  to  Nukha. 

For  Vorontsov  and  the  authorities  in  Peters- 
burg, as  well  as  for  most  Russians  acquainted 
with  Hadji  Murad 's  history,  the  whole  episode 
presented  itself  as  a  lucky  turn  in  the  Cau- 
casian war,  or  simply  as  an  interesting  event. 
For  Hadji  Murad,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was 
(especially  latterly)  a  terrible  crisis  in  his  life. 
He  had  escaped  from  the  mountains  partly  to 
save  himself,  partly  out  of  hatred  of  Shamil; 
and  difficult  as  this  flight  had  been,  he  had  at- 
tained his  object  and  for  a  time  was  glad  of 
his  success,  and  really  devised  a  plan  to  attack 
Shamil ;  but  the  rescue  of  his  family — which  he 
had  thought  would  be  easy  to  arrange — had 
proved  more  difficult  than  he  expected. 

Shamil  had  seized  the  family  and  kept  them 
prisoners,  threatening  to  hand  the  women  over 
to  the  different  aouls,  and  to  blind  or  kill  the 
son.  Now  Hadji  Murad  had  gone  to  Nukh^ 
intending  to  try,  by  the  aid  of  his  adherents 


HADJI    MUR  AD  249 

in  Daghestan,  to  rescue  his  family  from  Shamil 
by  force  or  by  cunning.  The  last  spy  who  had 
come  to  see  him  in  Nukha  informed  him  that 
the  Avars  devoted  to  him  were  preparing  to 
capture  his  family  and  to  come  over  to  the  Rus- 
sians with  it;  but  that  there  were  not  enough 
of  them,  and  they  could  not  risk  making  the 
attempt  in  Vedeno  where  the  family  was  at 
present  imprisoned,  but  could  only  do  it  if  the 
family  were  moved  from  Vedeno  to  some  other 
place:  in  which  case  they  promised  to  rescue 
them  on  the  way. 

Hadji  Murad  sent  word  to  his  friends  that 
he  would  give  three  thousand  roubles  for  the 
liberation  of  his  family. 

At  Nukhii  a  small  house  of  five  rooms  was 
assigned  to  Hadji  Murad  near  the  mosque  and 
the  Khan's  palace.  The  officers  in  charge  of 
him,  his  interpreter,  and  his  henchmen  stayed 
in  the  same  house.  Hadji  Murad 's  life  was 
spent  in  the  expectation  and  reception  of  mes- 
sengers from  the  mountains,  and  in  rides  he 
was  allowed  to  take  in  the  neighbourhood. 

On  24th  April,  returning  from  one  of  these 
rides,  Hadji  Murad  learnt  that  during  his  ab- 


250  HADJI    MUR  AD 

sence  an  official  had  arrived  from  Tiflis,  sent  by 
Vorontsov.  In  spite  of  his  loDging  to  know 
what  message  the  official  had  brought  him, 
Hadji  Murad,  before  going  into  the  room  where 
the  officer  in  charge  and  the  official  were  wait- 
ing, went  to  his  bedroom  and  repeated  his  noon- 
day prayer.  When  he  had  finished  he  came  out 
into  the  room  which  served  him  as  drawing  and 
reception  room.  The  official  who  had  come 
from  Tiflis,  Councillor  Kirillov,  informed 
Hadji  Murad  of  Vorontsov 's  wish  that  he 
should  come  to  Tiflis  on  the  12th,  to  meet  Gen- 
eral Argutinsky. 

''YaJishi!"  said  Hadji  Murad  angrily.  The 
councillor  did  not  please  him.  "Have  you 
brought  money?" 

"I  have,"  answered  Kirillov. 

"For  two  weeks  now,"  said  Hadji  Murad, 
holding  up  first  both  hands  and  then  four  fin- 
gers.    "Give  here!" 

"We'll  give  it  you  at  once,"  said  the  official, 
getting  his  purse  out  of  his  travelling-bag. 
"What  does  he  want  with  the  money!"  he  went 
on  in  Russian,  thinking  Hadji  Murad  would  not 
understand.     But    Hadji    Murad    understood, 


H  A  D  .1  r    ^l  U  R  A  D  251 

and  glanced  angrily  at  Kirillov.  AVbile  get- 
ting out  the  money  the  councillor,  wishing  to 
begin  a  conversation  with  Hadji  Mnrad  in  order 
on  his  return  to  have  something  to  tell  Prince 
Vorontsov,  asked  through  the  interpreter 
whether  Hadji  Mur;id  was  not  feeling  dull 
there.  Hadji  Munid  gianced  contemptuously 
out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  at  the  fat  unarmed 
little  man  dressed  as  a  civilian,  and  did  not  re- 
ply.    The  interpreter  repeated   the  question. 

"Tell  him  that  1  cannot  talk  with  him!  Let 
him  give  me  the  money!"  and  having  said  this, 
Hadji  Murad  sat  down  at  the  table  ready  to 
count  the  money. 

When  Kiritlov  had  got  out  the  money  and 
arranged  it  in  seven  piles  of  ten  gold  pieces 
each  (Hadji  Murad  received  five  gold  pieces 
daily)  and  pushed  them  towards  Hadji  Murad, 
the  latter  poured  the  gold  into  the  sleeve  of  his 
Circassian  coat,  rose,  and  quite  unexpectedly 
slapped  Councillor  Kirillov  on  his  bald  pate, 
and  turned  to  go. 

The  councillor  jumped  up  and  ordered  the 
interpreter  to  tell  Hadji  Murad  that  he  must 
not  dare  to  behave  like  that  to  him,  who  held  a 


252  HADJI   MUR  AD 

rank  equal  to  that  of  colonel !  The  officer  in 
charge  confirmed  this,  but  Hadji  Murad  only 
nodded  to  signify  that  he  knew,  and  left  the 
room. 

''What  is  one  to  do  with  him?"  said  the  of- 
ficer in  charge.  ''He'll  stick  his  dagger  into 
you,  that's  all!  One  cannot  talk  with  those 
devils!     I  see  that  he  is  getting  exasperated." 

As  soon  as  it  began  to  grow  dusk,  two  spys 
with  hoods  covering  their  faces  up  to  their 
eyes,  came  to  him  from  the  hills.  The  officer 
in  charge  led  them  to  Hadji  Murad 's  room. 
One  of  them  was  a  fleshy  swarthy  Tavlinian; 
the  other,  a  thin  old  man.  The  news  they 
brought  was  not  cheering  for  Hadji  Murad. 
His  friends  who  had  undertaken  to  rescue  his 
family,  now  definitely  refused  to  do  so,  being 
afraid  of  Shamil — who  threatened  to  punish 
with  the  most  terrible  tortures  any  one  who 
helped  Hadji  Murad.  Having  heard  the  mes- 
sengers, Hadji  Murad  sat  with  his  elbows  on 
his  crossed  legs,  and  bowing  his  turbaned  head, 
remained  silent  a  long  time. 

He  was  thinking,  and  thinking  resolutely. 
He  knew  that  he  was  now  considering  the  mat- 


HADJI   MURAD  253 

ter  for  the  last  time,  and  that  it  was  necessary 
to  eome  to  a  decision.  At  last  he  raised  his 
head,  gave  each  of  the  messengers  a  gold  piece, 
and  said:  "Go!" 

''What  answer  will  there  be?" 

"The  answer  will  be  as  God  pleases.  .  .  . 
Go!" 

The  messengers  rose  and  went  away,  and 
Hadji  Mnrad  continued  to  sit  on  the  carpet, 
leaning  his  elbows  on  his  knees.  He  sat  thus 
a  long  time,  and  pondered. 

"What  am  I  to  do?  To  take  Shamil  at  his 
word  and  return  to  him?"  he  thought.  "He 
is  a  fox  and  will  deceive  me.  Even  if  he  did 
not  deceive  me,  it  would  still  be  impossible  to 
submit  to  that  red  liar.  It  is  impossible  .  .  . 
because  now  that  I  have  been  with  the  Russians 
he  will  not  trust  me,"  thought  Hadji  Murad; 
and  he  remembered  a  Tavlinian  fable  about  a 
falcon  who  had  been  caught  and  lived  among 
men,  and  afterwards  returned  to  his  own  kind 
in  the  hills.  He  returned,  but  wearing  jesses 
with  bells;  and  the  other  falcons  would  not  re- 
ceive him.  "Fly  back  to  where  they  hung 
those  silver  bells  on  thee!"  said  they.     "We 


254  HADJI    MURAD 

have  no  bells  and  no  jesses.'^  The  falcon  did 
not  want  to  leave  his  home,  and  remained;  but 
the  other  falcons  did  not  wish  to  let  him  stay 
there,  and  pecked  him  to  death. 

**And  they  would  peck  me  to  death  in  the 
same  way,"  thought  Hadji  Murad.  ''Shall  I 
remain  here  and  conquer  Caucasia  for  the  Rus- 
sian Tsar,  and  earn  renown,  titles,  riches!" 

''That  could  be  done,"  thought  he,  recalling 
his  interviews  with  Vorontsov,  and  the  flatter- 
ing things  the  Prince  had  said.  "But  I  must 
decide  at  once,  or  Shamil  will  destroy  my  fam- 
ily." 

That  night  Hadji  Murad  remained  awake, 
thinking. 


XXIII 

By  midnight  his  decision  had  ])een  formed. 
He  had  decided  that  he  must  fly  to  the  moun- 
tains, and  with  the  Avars  still  devoted  to  him 
must  break  into  Vedeno,  and  either  die  or  res- 
cue his  family.  Whether  after  rescuing  them 
he  would  return  to  the  Russians  or  escape  to 
Khunzakh  and  fight  Shamil,  he  had  not  made  up 
his  mind.  All  he  knew  was  that  first  of  all  he 
must  escape  from  the  Russians  into  the  moun- 
tains; and  he  at  once  began  to  carry  out  his 
plan. 

He  drew  his  black  wadded  beshmet  from 
under  his  pillow,  and  went  into  his  henchmen's 
room.  They  lived  on  the  other  side  of  the  hall. 
As  soon  as  he  entered  the  hall,  the  outer  door 
of  which  stood  open,  he  was  at  once  enveloped 
by  the  dewy  freshness  of  the  moonlit  night 
and  his  ears  were  filled  by  the  whistling  and 
trilling  of  several  nightingales  in  the  garden 
by  the  house. 

255 


256  HADJI   MURAD 

Having  crossed  the  hall,  Hadji  Murad  opened 
the  door  of  his  henchmen's  room.  There  was 
no  light  in  the  room,  but  the  moon  in  its  first 
quarter  shone  in  at  the  window.  A  table  and 
two  chairs  were  standing  on  one  side  of  the 
room;  and  four  of  Hadji  Murad 's  henchmen 
were  lying  on  carpets  or  on  hurkas  on  the  floor. 
Khanefi  slept  outside  with  the  horses.  Gam- 
zalo  heard  the  door  creak,  rose,  turned  round, 
and  saw  Hadji  Murad.  On  recognising  him  he 
lay  down  again.  But  Eldar,  who  lay  beside 
him,  jumped  up  and  began  putting  on  his  hesh- 
metj  expecting  his  master's  orders.  Khan  Ma- 
homa  and  Bata  slept  on.  Hadji  jMurad  put 
down  the  heshmet  he  had  brought  on  the  table, 
and  it  hit  the  table  with  a  dull  sound.  This 
was  caused  by  the  gold  sewn  up  in  it. 

''Sew  these  in  too,"  said  Hadji  Murad,  hand- 
ing Eldt'ir  the  gold  pieces  he  had  that  day  re- 
ceived. Eldar  took  them,  and  at  once  went  into 
the  moonlight,  drew  a  small  knife  from  under 
his  dagger,  and  started  unstitching  the  lining 
of  the  heshmet.  Gamzalo  raised  himself  and 
sat  up  with  his  legs  crossed. 

"And  you,  Gamzalo,  tell  the  fellows  to  ex- 


HADJI   MUR AD  257 

amine  the  rifles  and  pistols  and  to  get  the  am- 
munition ready.  To-morrow  we  shall  go  far," 
said  Hadji  Murad. 

"We  have  bullets  and  powder;  everything 
shall  be  ready,"  replied  Gamzalo,  and  roared 
out  something  incomprehensible.  He  under- 
stood why  Hadji  Murad  had  ordered  the  rifles 
to  be  loaded.  From  the  first  he  had  desired 
only  one  thing — to  slay  and  stab  as  many  Rus- 
sians as  possible,  and  to  escape  to  the  hills ;  and 
this  desire  had  increased  day  by  day.  Now  at 
last  he  saw  that  Hadji  Murad  also  wanted  this, 
and  he  was  satisfied. 

When  Hadji  Murad  went  away,  Gamzdlo 
roused  his  comrades,  and  all  four  spent  the 
rest  of  the  night  examining  their  rifles  pistols 
flints  and  accoutrements;  replacing  what  was 
damaged,  sprinkling  fresh  powder  on  to  the 
pans,  and  stoppering  packets  filled  with  pow- 
der measured  for  each  charge  with  bullets 
wrapped  in  oiled  rags,  sharpening  their  swords 
and  daggers  and  greasing  the  blades  with  tal- 
low. 

Before  daybreak  Hadji  Murad  again  came 
out  into  the  hall  to  get  some  water  for  his  ab- 


258  HADJI   MURAD 

lutions.  The  songs  of  the  nightingales  that  had 
burst  into  ecstasy  at  dawn  sounded  even  louder 
and  more  incessant  than  they  had  done  before, 
while  from  his  henchmen's  room,  where  the 
daggers  were  being  sharpened,  came  the  reg-, 
ular  squeaking  and  rasping  of  iron  against 
stone. 

Hadji  Murad  got  himself  some  water  from  a 
tub,  and  was  already  at  his  own  door  when, 
above  the  sound  of  the  grinding,  he  heard  from 
his  miirids'  room  the  high  tones  of  Khaneti's 
voice  singing  a  familiar  song.  Hadji  Murad 
stopped  to  listen.  The  song  told  of  how  a 
dzhigit,  Hamzad,  with  his  brave  followers  cap- 
tured a  herd  of  white  horses  from  the  Russians, 
and  how  a  Russian  prince  followed  him  beyond 
the  Terek  and  surrounded  him  with  an  army 
as  large  as  a  forest;  and  then  the  song  went 
on  to  tell  how  Hamzad  killed  the  horses,  and, 
with  his  men  entrenched  behind  this  gory  bul- 
wark, fought  the  Russians  as  long  as  they  had 
bullets  in  their  rifles,  daggers  in  their  belts,  and 
blood  in  their  veins.  But  before  he  died  Ham- 
zad saw  some  birds  flying  in  the  sky  and  cried 
to  them, — 


HADJI   MUR  AD  259 

"Fly  on,  ye  winged  ones,  fly  to  our  homes! 
Tell  ye  our  mothers,  tell  ye  our  sisters, 
Tell  the  white  maidens,  fighting  we  died 
For  Ghazaviit !     Tell  them  our  bodies 
Never  shall  lie  and  rest  in  a  tomb ! 
AVolves  shall  devour  and  tear  them  to  pieces, 
Ravens  and  vultures  pluck  out  our  eyes." 

With  that  the  song  ended,  and  at  the  last 
words,  sung  to  a  mournful  air,  the  merry  Ba- 
ta's  vigorous  voice  joined  in  with  a  loud  shout 
of  "Lija-il  lijakha-iV  AUakh!"  finishing  with 
a  shrill  shriek.  Then  all  was  quiet  again,  ex- 
cept for  the  iclnit,  tcliuk,  tchuk,  tchuk  and  whis- 
tling of  the  nightingales  from  the  garden,  and 
from  behind  the  door  the  even  grinding,  and 
now  and  then  the  whizz,  of  iron  sliding  quickly 
along  the  whetstone. 

Hadji  Murad  was  so  full  of  thought  that  he 
did  not  notice  how  he  tilted  his  jug  till  the 
water  began  to  pour  out.  He  shook  his  head 
at  himself,  and  re-entered  his  room.  After 
performing  his  morning  ablutions  he  examined 
his  weapons  and  sat  down  on  his  bed.  There 
was  nothing  more  for  him  to  do.     To  be  al- 


260  HADJI    MUR  AD 

lowed  to  ride  out,  be  would  have  to  get  permis- 
sion from  the  officer  in  charge;  but  it  was  not 
yet  daylight,  and  the  officer  was  still  asleep. 

Khanefi's  song  reminded  him  of  another  song, 
the  one  his  mother  had  composed  just  after  he 
was  born :  the  song  addressed  to  his  father, 
that  Hadji  Murad  had  mentioned  to  Loris-Mel- 
ikov. 

"Thy  sword  of  Damascus-steel  tore  my  white  bosom; 

But  close  on  it  laid  I  my  own  little  boy ; 

In  my  hot-streaming  blood  him  I  laved  ;  and  the  wound 

Without  herbs  or  specifics  was  soon  fully  healed. 

As  I,  facing  death,  remained  fearless,  so  he, 

My  boy,  my  dzhigit,  from  all  fear  shall  be  free!" 

He  remembered  how  his  mother  put  him  to 
sleep  beside  her  under  a  cloak,  on  the  roof  of 
their  sdklya,  and  how  he  asked  her  to  let  him 
see  the  place  on  her  side  where  the  wound  had 
left  a  scar.  Hadji  Murad  seemed  to  see  his 
mother  before  him — not  wrinkled,  grey-haired, 
with  gaps  between  her  teeth,  as  he  had  lately 
left  her,  but  young  handsome  and  so  strong  that 
she  carried  him  in  a  basket  on  her  back  across 


HADJI   MURAD  261 

the  mountains  to  her  father's  when  he  was  a 
heavy  five-year-old  boy.  He  also  recalled  his 
grandfather,  wrinkled  and  grey-bearded,  and 
how  the  old  man  hammered  silver  with  his 
sinewy  hands,  and  made  him  say  his  prayers. 

He  thought  of  the  fountain  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill,  whither,  holding  to  her  wide  trousers,  he 
went  with  his  mother  to  fetch  water.  He  re- 
membered the  lean  dog  that  used  to  lick  his 
face,  and  he  recalled  with  special  vividness  the 
peculiar  smell  of  sour  milk  and  smoke  in  the 
shed  where  his  mother  took  him  with  her  when 
she  went  to  milk  the  cows  or  scald  the  milk. 
He  remembered  how  she  shaved  his  head  for 
the  first  time,  and  how  surprised  he  was  to 
see  his  round  blue-gleaming  head  reflected  in 
the  brightly-polished  brass  basin  that  hung 
against  the  wall. 

And  the  recollection  of  himself  as  a  little 
child  reminded  him  of  his  beloved  son,  Yusuf, 
whose  head  he  himself  had  shaved  for  the  first 
time;  and  now  this  Yusuf  was  a  handsome 
young  dzhigit.  He  pictured  him  as  he  was 
when  last  he  saw  him.  It  was  on  the  day  that 
Hadji  Murad  left  Tselmess.     His  son  brought 


262  HADJI   MUR  AD 

him  his  horse  and  asked  to  be  allowed  to  ac- 
company him.  Yusiif  was  ready  dressed  and 
armed,  and  led  his  own  horse  by  the  bridle. 
His  rosy  handsome  young'  face  and  "the  whole 
of  his  tall  slender  figure  (he  was  taller  than 
his  father)  breathed  of  daring,  youth,  and  the 
joy  of  life.  The  breadth  of  his  shoulders, 
though  he  was  so  young,  the  very  wide  youth- 
ful hips,  the  long  slender  waist,  and  the 
strength  of  his  long  arms,  the  power  flexibility 
and  agility  of  all  his  movements  had  always 
rejoiced  Hadji  Murad,  who  admired  his  son. 

"Thou  hadst  better  stay.  Thou  wilt  be  alone 
at  home  now.  Take  care  of  thy  mother  and 
thy  grandmother,"  said  Hadji  Murad.  And  he 
remembered  the  spirited  and  proud  look  and 
the  flush  of  pleasure  with  which  Yusuf  had  re- 
plied that  as  long  as  he  lived  no  one  should 
injure  his  mother  or  grandmother.  All  the 
same  Yusuf  had  mounted  and  accompanied  his 
father  as  far  as  the  stream.  There  he  turned 
back,  and  since  then  Hadji  Murad  had  not  seen 
his  wife,  his  mother,  or  his  son.  And  it  was 
this  son  whose  eyes  Shamil  wished  to  put  out! 
Of  what  would  be  done  to  his  wife,  Hadji  Murad 
did  not  wish  to  tliink. 


HADJI   MUR  AD  263 

These  thoughts  so  excited  him  that  he  could 
not  sit  still  any  longer.  He  jumped  up  and 
went  limping  quickly  to  the  door,  opened  it, 
and  called  Eldar.  The  sun  had  not  yet  risen, 
but  it  was  already  quite  light.  The  nightin- 
gales were  still  singing. 

"Go,  and  tell  the  officer  that  I  want  to  go 
out  riding;  and  saddle  the  horses,"  said  he. 


XXIV 

Butler's  only  consolation  all  tliis  time  was  the 
poetry  of  warfare,  to  which  he  gave  himself 
up  not  only  during  his  hours  of  service,  but  also 
in  private  life.  Dressed  in  his  Circassian  cos- 
tume he  rode  and  swaggered  about,  and  twice 
went  into  ambush  with  Bogdanovitch,  though 
neither  time  did  they  discover  or  kill  any  one. 
This  closeness  to  and  friendship  with  Bogdano- 
vitch, famed  for  his  courage,  seemed  pleasant 
and  warlike  to  Butler.  He  had  paid  his  debt, 
having  borrowed  the  money  of  a  Jew  at  an 
enormous  rate  of  interest — that  is  to  say,  he 
had  only  postponed  his  difficulties  without  solv- 
ing them.  He  tried  not  to  think  of  his  position, 
and  to  find  oblivion  not  only  in  the  poetry  of 
warfare,  but  also  in  wine.  He  drank  more  and 
more  every  day,  and  day  by  day  grew  morally 
weaker.  He  was  now  no  longer  the  chaste 
Joseph  he  had  been  towards  Mary  Dmitrievna, 
but  on  the  contrary  began  courting  her  grossly, 

264 


HADJI   MURAD  265 

but  to  his  surprise,  met  with  a  strong  and  de- 
cided repulse  which  put  him  to  shame. 

At  the  end  of  April  there  arrived  at  the  fort 
a  detachment  with  which  Baryatinsky  intended 
to  effect  an  advance  right  through  Chechnya, 
which  had  till  then  been  considered  impass- 
able. In  that  detachment  were  two  companies 
of  the  Kabarda  regiment,  and  according  to  the 
Caucasian  custom  these  were  treated  as  guests 
by  the  Kurin  companies.  The  soldiers  were 
lodged  in  the  barracks,  and  were  treated  not 
only  to  supper,  consisting  of  buckwheat-por- 
ridge and  beef,  but  also  to  vodka.  The  officers 
shared  the  quarters  of  the  Kurin  officers,  and 
as  usual  those  in  residence  gave  the  ncAvcomers 
a  dinner,  at  which  the  regimental  singers  per- 
formed, and  which  ended  up  with  a  drinking- 
bout.  Major  Petrov,  very  drunk  and  no  longer 
red  but  ashy  pale,  sat  astride  a  chair,  and  draw- 
ing his  sword,  hacked  at  imaginary  foes,  al- 
ternately swearing  and  laughing,  now  embrac- 
ing some  one  and  now  dancing  to  the  tune  of 
his  favourite  song. 


266  HADJI   MUR  AD 

"Shamil,  he  began  to  riot 
In  the  days  gone  by-; 
Try,  ry,  rataty, 
In  the  years  gone  by!" 

Bntler  was  there,  too.  He  tried  to  see  the 
poetry  of  warfare  in  this  also;  but  in  tlie  depth 
of  his  soul  he  was  sorry  for  the  Major.  To 
slop  him  however  was  quite  impossible;  and 
Butler,  feeling  that  the  fumes  were  mounting 
to  his  own  head,  quietly  left  the  room  and  went 
home. 

The  moon  lit  up  the  white  houses  and  the 
stones  on  the  road.  It  was  so  light  that  every 
pebble,  every  straw,  every  little  heap  of  dust 
was  visible.  As  he  approached  the  house,  But- 
ler met  Mary  Dmitrievna  with  a  shawl  over  her 
head  and  neck.  After  the  rebuff  she  had  given 
him,  Butler  had  avoided  her,  feeling  rather 
ashamed;  but  now,  in  the  moonlight  and  after 
the  wine  he  had  drunk,  he  was  pleased  to  meet 
her,  and  wished  again  to  make  up  to  her. 

"Where  are  you  off  to?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  to  see  after  my  old  man,"  she  an- 
swered pleasantly.     Her  rejection  of  Butler's 


HADJI   MUR  AD  267 

advances  was  quite  siueere  and  decided,  ])iit  she 
did  not  like  his  avoiding  her  as  he  ha<l  done 
hitely. 

"Why  bother  about  liim?  He'll  soon  come 
back." 

"But  will  he?" 

"If  he  doesn't,  they'll  bring  liim." 

"Just  so.  .  .  .  That's  not  right,  you  know! 
.  .  .  But  you  think  I'd  better  not  go?" 

"No,  don't.     We'd  better  go  home." 

]\fary  Dmitrievna  turned  back  and  walked 
beside  him.  The  moon  shone  so  brightly  that 
round  the  shadows  of  their  heads  a  halo  seemed 
to  move  along  the  road.  Butler  was  looking  at 
this  halo  and  making  up  his  mind  to  tell  her  that 
he  liked  her  as  much  as  ever,  but  he  did  not 
know  how  to  begin.  She  waited  to  hear  what 
he  would  say.  So  they  walked  on  in  silence 
almost  to  the  house,  when  some  horsemen  ap- 
peared from  round  the  corner.  They  were  an 
officer  with  an  escort. 

"Who's  that  coming  now!"  said  Mary  Dmit- 
rievna, stepping  aside.  The  moon  was  behind 
the  rider,  so  that  she  did  not  recognise  him 
until  he  had  almost  come  u[)  to  But  lev  and  her- 


268  HADJI   MUR  AD 

self.  It  was  Peter  Nikolaevicli  Kamenev,  an 
officer  who  had  formerly  served  with  the  Major, 
and  whom  Mary  Dmitrievna  therefore  knew. 

*'Is  that  you,  Peter  Nikolaevich?"  said  she, 
addressing  him. 

"  It 's  me, ' '  said  Kamenev.  ' '  Ah,  Butler,  how 
d'youdo?  .  .  .  Not  asleep  yet?  Having  a  walk 
with  Mary  Dmitrievna!  You'd  better  look  out, 
or  the  Major  will  give  it  you.  .  .  .  Where  is 
he?" 

''Why,  there.  .  .  .  Listen!"  replied  Mary 
Dmitrievna,  pointing  in  the  direction  whence 
came  the  sounds  of  a  tidumbas  ^  and  of  songs. 
''They're  on  the  spree." 

"How's  that?  Are  your  people  having  a 
spree  on  their  own?" 

"No;  some  officers  have  come  from  Hasav- 
Yurt,  and  they  are  being  entertained." 

"Ah,  that's  good!  I  shall  be  in  time.  ...  I 
just  want  the  Major  for  a  moment." 

"On  business?"  asked  Butler. 

"Yes,  just  a  little  business  matter." 

"Good  or  bad?" 

^Tulumhas,  a  sort  Of  kettledrum. 


HADJI   MUR  AD  269 

"It  all  depends.  .  .  .  Good  for  us,  but  bad 
for  some  people,"  and  Kamenev  laughed. 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  Major's 
house. 

"Chikhirev, "  shouted  Kj'imenev  to  one  of  his 
Cossacks,  ''come  here!" 

A  Don  Cossack  rode  up  from  among  the 
others.  He  was  dressed  in  the  ordinary  Don 
Cossack  uniform,  with  high  boots  and  a  mantle, 
and  carried  saddle-bags  behind. 

''Well,  take  the  thing  out,"  said  Kamenev, 
dismounting. 

The  Cossack  also  dismounted,  and  took  a  sack 
out  of  his  saddle-bag.  Kamenev  took  the  sack 
from  him,  and  put  his  hand  in. 

"Well,  shall  I  show  you  a  novelty?  You 
won't  be  frightened,  Mary  Dmitrievna?" 

"Why  should  I  be  frightened?"  she  replied. 

"TTere  it  is!"  said  Kamenev,  taking  out  a 
man's  head,  and  holding  it  up  in  the  light  of 
the  moon.     "Do  you  recognise  it?" 

It  was  a  shaven  head  with  salient  brows, 
black  short-cut  beard  and  moustaches,  one  eye 
open  and  the  other  half-closed.  The  shaven 
skull  was  cleft,  but  not  right  through,  and  there 


270  HADJI   MURAD 

was  congealed  blood  in  the  nose.  The  neck 
was  wrapped  in  a  blood-stained  towel.  Not- 
withstanding the  many  wounds  on  the  head,  the 
blue  lips  still  bore  a  kindly  childlike  expression. 

Mary  Dmitrievna  looked  at  it,  and  without  a 
word  turned  away  and  went  quickly  into  the 
house. 

Butler  could  not  tear  his  eyes  from  the  terri- 
ble head.  It  was  the  head  of  that  very 
Hadji  Murad  with  whom  he  had  so  recently 
spent  his  evenings  in  such  friendly  inter- 
course. 

''How's  that!  Who  has  killed  him?"  he 
asked. 

''Wanted  to  give  us  the  slip,  but  was  caught," 
said  Kamenev,  and  he  gave  the  head  back  to 
the  Cossack,  and  went  into  the  house  with 
Butler. 

"He  died  like  a  hero,"  said  Kamenev. 

"But  however  did  it  all  happen?" 

"Just  wait  a  bit.  When  the  Major  comes  I 
will  tell  vou  all  about  it.  That's  what  I  am 
sent  for.  I  take  it  round  to  all  the  forts  and 
aouls  and  show  it." 

The  Major  was  sent  for,  and  he  came  back 


HADJI   MUR AD  271 

accompanied  by  two  other  officers  as  drunk  as 
himself,  and  began  embracing  Kamenev. 

"And  I  have  brought  you  Hadji  Murad's 
head,"  said  Kamenev. 

"No?  .  .  .  Killed?" 

"Yes;  wanted  to  escape," 

"I  always  said  he  would  bamboozle  them! 
.  .  .  And  where  is  it?  The  head,  I  mean.  .  .  . 
Let's  see  it." 

The  Cossack  was  called,  and  brought  in  the 
bag  with  the  head.  It  was  taken  out,  and  the 
Major  looked  at  it  long  with  drunken  eyes. 

"All  the  same,  he  was  a  fine  fellow,"  said  he. 
"Let  me  kiss  him!" 

"Yes,  it's  true.  It  was  a  valiant  head,"  said 
one  of  the  officers. 

When  all  had  looked  at  it,  it  was  returned  to 
the  Cossack,  who  put  it  in  his  bag,  trying  to  let 
it  bump  against  the  floor  as  gently  as  possible. 

"I  say,  Kamenev,  what  speech  do  you  make 
when  you  show  the  head?"  asked  an  officer. 

"No!  .  .  ,  Let  me  kiss  him.  He  gave  me  a 
sword!"  shouted  the  Major. 

Butler  went  out  into  the  porch. 

Mary  Dmitrievna  was  sitting  on  the  second 


272  HADJI    MURAD 

step.  She  looked  round  at  Butler,  and  at  once 
turned  angrily  away  again. 

''What's  the  matter,  Mary  Dmitrievna?" 
asked  he. 

^'You're  all  cutthroats!  ...  I  hate  it! 
You're  cutthroats,  really,"  and  she  got  up. 

"It  might  happen  to  any  one,"  remarked 
Butler,  not  knowing  what  to  say.  "That's 
war." 

"War!  War,  indeed!  .  .  .  Cutthroats  and 
nothing  else.  A  dead  body  should  be  given 
back  to  the  earth,  and  they're  grinning  at  it 
there!  .  .  .  Cutthroats,  really,"  she  repeated, 
as  she  descended  the  steps  and  entered  the 
house  by  the  back  door. 

Butler  returned  to  the  room,  and  asked 
Kamenev  to  tell  them  in  detail  how  the  thing 
had  occurred. 

And  Kamenev  told  them. 

This  is  what  had  happened. 


XXV 

Hadji  Murad  was  allowed  to  go  out  riding  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  town,  but  never  with- 
out a  convoy  of  Cossacks.  There  was  only  half 
a  troop  of  them  altogether  in  Nukha,  ten  of 
whom  were  employed  by  the  officers,  so  that  if 
ten  were  sent  out  with  Hadji  Murad  (according 
to  the  orders  received)  the  same  men  would  have 
had  to  go  every  other  day.  Therefore,  after 
ten  had  been  sent  out  the  first  day,  it  was  de- 
cided to  send  only  five  in  future,  and  Hadji 
Murad  was  asked  not  to  take  all  his  henchmen 
with  him.  But  on  25th  April  he  rode  out  with 
all  five.  When  he  mounted,  the  commander, 
noticing  that  all  five  henchmen  were  going  with 
him,  told  him  that  he  was  forbidden  to  take 
them  all ;  but  Hadj'i  Murad  pretended  not  to 
hear,  touched  his  horse,  and  the  commander 
did  not  insist. 

With  the  Cossacks  rode  a  non-commissioned 
officer,  Nazarov,  who  had  received  the  Cross  of 

273 


274  HADJI   MUR  AD 

St.  George  for  bravery.  He  was  a  young 
healthy  brown-haired  lad,  as  fresh  as  a  rose. 
He  was  the  eldest  of  a  poor  family  belonging 
to  the  sect  of  Old  Believers,  had  grown  up  with- 
out a  father,  and  had  maintained  his  old  mother, 
three  sisters,  and  two  brothers. 

''Mind,  Nazarov,  keep  close  to  him!"  shouted 
the  commander. 

"All  right,  your  honour!"  answered  Naziirov, 
and  rising  in  his  stirrups  and  adjusting  the  rifle 
that  hung  at  his  back,  he  started  his  fine  large 
roan  gelding  at  a  trot.  Four  Cossacks  followed 
him:  Therapontov,  tall  and  thin,  a  regular  thief 
and  plunderer  (he  it  was  who  had  sold  gun- 
powder to  Gamzalo) ;  Ignatov,  a  sturdy  peasant 
who  boasted  of  his  strength,  was  no  longer 
young,  and  had  nearly  completed  his  service; 
Mishkin,  a  weakly  lad  at  whom  everybody 
laughed;  and  the  young  fair-haired  Petrakov, 
his  mother's  only  son,  always  amiable  and  jolly. 

The  morning  had  been  misty,  but  it  cleared 
up  later  on,  and  the  opening  foliage,  the  young 
virgin  grass,  the  sprouting  corn  and  the  ripples 
of  the  rapid  river  just  visible  to  the  left  of  the 
road,  all  glittered  in  the  sunshine. 


HADJI   MUR AD  275 

Hadji  Munkl  rode  slowly  along,  followed  by 
the  Cossacks  and  by  his  henchmen.  They  rode 
out  along  the  road  beyond  the  fort  at  a  walk. 
They  met  women  carrying  baskets  on  their 
heads,  soldiers  driving  carts,  and  creaking 
wagons  drawn  by  buffaloes.  When  he  had  gone 
about  a  mile  and  a  half,  Hadji  Murad  touched 
up  his  white  Kabarda  horse,  which  started  at 
an  amble  that  obliged  the  henchmen  and  Cos- 
sacks to  ride  at  a  quick  trot  to  keep  up  with  him. 

''Ah,  he's  got  a  fine  horse  under  him,"  said 
Therapontov.  "If  only  he  were  still  an  enemy 
I'd  soon  bring  him  down." 

"Yes,  mate.  Three  hundred  roubles  were 
offered  for  that  horse  in  Tiflis." 

"But  I  can  get  ahead  of  him  on  mine,"  said 
Nazarov.  * 

' '  You  get  ahead  ?    A  likely  thing ! " 

Hadji  Murad  kept  increasing  his  pace. 

"Hey,  kunak,  you  mustn't  do  that.  Steady  !" 
cried  Nazarov,  starting  to  overtake  Hadji  Mu- 
rad. 

Hadji  Murad  looked  round,  said  nothing,  and 
continued  to  ride  at  the  same  pace. 

"Mind,  they're  up  to  something,  the  devils!" 


276  HADJI   MURAD 

said  Ignatov.  "See  how  they  are  tearing 
along." 

So  they  rode  for  the  best  part  of  a  mile  in  the 
direction  of  the  mountains. 

''I  tell  you  it  won't  do!"  shouted  Nazarov. 

Hadji  Murad  did  not  answer,  and  did  not  look 
round,  but  only  increased  his  pace  to  a  gallop. 

''Humbug!  You'll  not  get  away!"  shouted 
Nazarov,  stung  to  the  quick.  He  gave  his  big 
roan  gelding  a  cut  with  his  whip,  and  rising  in 
his  stirrups  and  bending  forward,  flew  full 
speed  in  pursuit  of  Hadji  Murad. 

The  sky  was  so  bright,  the  air  so  clear,  and 
life  played  so  joyously  in  Nazarov 's  soul  as, 
becoming  one  with  his  fine  strong  horse,  he  flew 
along  the  smooth  road  behind  Hadji  Murad, 
that  the  possibility  of  Anything  sad  or  dread- 
ful happening  never  occurred  to  him.  He  re- 
joiced that  with  every  step  he  was  gaining  on 
Hadji  Murad. 

Hadji  Murad  judged  by  the  approaching 
tramp  of  the  big  horse  behind  him  that  he  would 
soon  be  overtaken,  and  seizing  his  pistol  with 
his  right  hand,  with  his  left  he  began  slightly 
to  rein  in  his  Kabarda  horse,  which  was  ex- 


HADJI   MURAD  277 

cited  by  hearing  the  tramp  of  hoofs  behind  it. 

''You  mustn't,  I  tell  you!"  shouted  Nazarov, 
almost  level  with  Hadji  Murad,  and  stretching 
out  his  hand  to  seize  the  latter 's  bridle.  But 
before  he  reached  it  a  shot  was  fired. — "What 
are  you  doing?"  screamed  Nazarov,  catching- 
hold  of  his  breast.  ''At  them,  lads!"  he  ex- 
claimed, and  he  reeled  and  fell  forward  on  his 
saddle-bow. 

But  the  mountaineers  were  beforehand  in  tak- 
ing to  their  weapons,  and  fired  their  pistols  at 
the  Cossacks  and  hewed  at  them  with  their 
swords. 

Nazarov  hung  on  the  neck  of  his  horse,  which 
careered  round  his  comrades.  The  horse  under 
Ignatov  fell,  crushing  his  leg,  and  two  of  the 
mountaineers,  without  dismounting,  drew  their 
swords  and  hacked  at  his  head  and  arms.  Pe- 
trakov  was  about  to  rush  to  his  comrades'  res- 
cue, when  two  shots — one  in  the  back  and  the 
other  in  his  side — stung  him,  and  he  fell  from 
his  horse  like  a  sack. 

Mishkin  turned  round  and  galloped  off 
towards  the  fortress.  Khanefi  and  Bata 
rushed  after  him,  but  he  was  already  too  far 


278         .      HADJI    MUR  AD 

away  and  they  could  not  catch  him.  When  they 
saw  that  they  could  not  overtake  him,  they 
returned  to  the  others. 

Petrakov  lay  on  his  back,  his  stomach  ripped 
open,  his  young  face  turned  to  the  sky,  and 
while  dying  he  gasped  for  breath  like  a  fish. 

Gamzalo  having  finished  off  Ignatov  with  his 
sword,  gave  a  cut  to  Nazarov  too,  and  threw  him 
from  his  horse.  Bata  took  their  cartridge- 
pouches  from  the  slain.  Khanefi  wished  to  take 
Nazarov 's  horse,  but  Hadji  Murad  called  out 
to  him  to  leave  it,  and  dashed  forward  along  the 
road.  His  murids  galloped  after  him,  driving 
away  Nazarov 's  horse  that  tried  to  follow  them. 
They  vv^ere  already  among  rice  fields  more  than 
six  miles  from  Nuklui  when  a  shot  was  fired 
from  the  tower  of  that  place  to  give  the  alarm. 

•  •  •  •  • 

*'0h,  good  Lord!  Oh,  dear  me!  Dear  me! 
What  have  they  done  ? ' '  cried  the  commander  of 
the  fort,  seizing  his  head  with  his  hands,  when 
he  heard  of  Hadji  Murad 's  escape.  ''They've 
done  for  me!  They've  let  him  escape,  the  vil- 
lains!" cried  he,  listening  to  Mishkin's  account. 

An  alarm  was  raised  everywhere,  and  not 


HADJI   MURAD  279 

only  the  Cossacks  of  the  place  were  sent  after 
the  fugitives,  but  also  all  the  militia  that  could 
be  mustered  from  the  pro-Russian  aouls.  A 
thousand  roubles  reward  was  offered  for  the. 
capture  of  Hadji  Murad  alive  or  dead,  and  two 
hours  after  he  and  his  followers  had  escaped 
from  the  Cossacks  more  than  two  hundred 
mounted  men  were  galloping  after  the  offi- 
cer in  charge  to  find  and  capture  the  runa- 
ways. 

After  riding  some  miles  along  the  highroad, 
Hadji  Murad  checked  his  panting  horse,  which, 
wet  with  persi^iration,  had  turned  from  white 
to  grey. 

To  the  right  of  the  road  could  be  seen  the 
sdklyas  and  minarets  of  the  aoul  Benerdzhik, 
on  the  left  lay  some  fields,  and  beyond  them  the 
river.  Although  the  wav  to  the  mountains  lav 
to  the  right,  Hadji  Murad  turned  in  the  oppo- 
site direction,  to  the  left,  assuming  that  his  pur- 
suers would  be  sure  to  go  to  the  right ;  while  he, 
abandoning  the  road,  would  cross  the  Alazan 
and  would  come  out  on  to  the  highroad  on  the 
other  side,  where  no  one  would  expect  him,  and 
would  ride  along  it  to  the  forest,  and  then. 


280  HADJI   MURAD 

after  recrossing  the  river,  would  make  his  way 
to  the  mountains. 

Having  come  to  this  conclusion,  he  turned  to 
the  left.  But  it  proved  impossible  to  reach  the 
river.  The  rice-field  which  had  to  be  crossed 
had  just  been  flooded,  as  is  always  done  in 
spring,  and  had  become  a  bog  in  which  the 
horses'  legs  sank  above  their  pasterns.  Hadji 
Murad  and  his  henchmen  turned,  now  to  the 
left,  now  to  the  right,  hoping  to  find  drier 
ground;  but  the  field  they  happened  to  be  in 
had  been  equally  flooded  all  over,  and  was  now 
saturated  with  water.  The  horses  drew  their 
feet  out  of  the  sticky  mud  into  which  they  sank, 
with  a  pop  like  that  of  a  cork  drawn  from  a 
bottle,  and  stopped,  panting,  after  every  few 
steps.  They  struggled  in  this  way  so  long  that 
it  began  to  grow  dusk,  and  they  had  still  not 
reached  the  river.  To  their  left  lay  a  patch  of 
higher  ground  overgrown  with  shrubs,  and 
Hadji  Murad  decided  to  ride  in  among  these 
clumps  and  remain  there  till  night  to  rest  their 
worn-out  horses  and  let  them  graze.  The  men 
themselves  ate  some  bread  and  cheese  that  they 
had  brought  with  them.     At  last  night  came  on 


HADJI   MURAD  281 

and  the  moon  that  had  been  shining  at  first, 
hid  behind  the  hill,  and  it  became  dark.  There 
were  a  great  many  nightingales  in  that  neigh- 
bourhood, and  there  were  two  of  them  in  these 
shrubs.  As  long  as  Hadji  Murad  and  his  men 
were  making  a  noise  among  the  bushes  the 
nightingales  had  been  silent,  but  when  the  peo- 
ple became  still,  the  birds  again  began  to  call 
to  one  another  and  to  sing. 

Hadji  Murad,  awake  to  all  the  sounds  of 
night,  listened  to  them  involuntarily,  and  their 
trills  reminded  him  of  the  song  about  Hamzad 
which  he  had  heard  the  night  before  when  he 
went  to  get  water.  He  might  now  at  any  mo- 
ment find  himself  in  the  position  in  which  Ham- 
zdd  had  been.  He  fancied  that  it  would  be  so, 
and  suddenly  his  soul  became  serious.  He 
spread  out  his  burka  and  performed  his  ablu- 
tions, and  scarcely  had  he  finished  before  a 
sound  was  heard  approaching  their  shelter.  It 
was  the  sound  of  many  horses'  feet  plashing 
through  the  bog. 

The  keen-sighted  Bata  ran  out  to  one  edge 
of  the  clump,  and  peering  through  the  darkness 
saw  black  shadows,  which  were  men  on  foot  and 


282  HADJI   MUR  AD 

on  horseback.  Khanefi  discerned  a  similar 
crowd  on  the  other  side.  It  was  Karganov,  the 
military  commander  of  the  district,  with  his 
militia. 

"Well,  then,  we  shall  fight  like  Hamzad," 
thought  Hadji  Murad. 

When  the  alarm  was  given,  Kargiinov,  with  a 
troop  of  militiamen  and  Cossacks,  had  rushed 
off  in  pursuit  of  Hadji  Murad;  but  he  had  been 
unable  to  find  any  trace  of  him.  He  had  al- 
ready lost  hope,  and  was  returning  home,  when 
towards  evening  he  met  an  old  man  and 
asked  him  if  he  had  seen  any  horsemen  about. 
The  old  man  replied  that  he  had.  He  had  seen 
six  horsemen  floundering  in  the  rice-field,  and 
then  had  seen  them  enter  the  clump  where  he 
himself  was  getting  wood.  Karganov  turned 
back,  taking  the  old  man  with  him ;  and  seeing 
the  hobbled  horses,  he  made  sure  that  Hadji 
Murad  was  there.  In  the  night  he  surrounded 
the  clump,  and  waited  till  morning  to  take  Hadji 
Murad  alive  or  dead. 

Having  understood  that  he  was  surrounded, 
and  having  discovered  an  old  ditch  among  the 
shrubs,  Hadji  Murad  decided  to  entrench  him- 


HADJI   MUR  AD  283 

self  iu  it,  and  to  resist  as  long  as  strength  and 
ammunition  lasted.  Ho  told  this  to  his  com- 
rades, and  ordered  them  to  throw  up  a  bank  in 
front  of  Ihe  ditch ;  and  his  henchmen  at  once  set 
to  work  to  cut  down  branches,  dis^'  up  the  earth 
with  their  daggers,  and  to  make  an  entrench- 
ment.   Hadji  Murad  himself  worked  with  them. 

As  soon  as  it  began  to  grow  light  the  com- 
mander of  the  militia  troop  rode  up  to  the  clump 
and  shouted, — 

''Hey!  Hadji  Murad,  surrender!  We  are 
many,  and  you  are  few!" 

In  reply  came  the  report  of  a  rifle,  a  cloudlet 
of  smoke  rose  from  the  ditch,  and  a  bullet  hit 
the  militiaman's  horse,  which  staggered  under 
him  and  began  to  fall.  The  rifles  of  the  militia- 
men, wiio  stood  at  the  outskirt  of  the  clump  of 
shrubs,  began  cracking  in  their  turn,  and  their 
"bullets  whistled  and  hummed,  cutting  off  leaves 
and  twigs  and  striking  the  embankment,  but  not 
the  men  entrenched  behind  it.  Only  Gamzalo's 
horse,  that  had  strayed  from  the  others,  was 
hit  in  the  head  by  a  bullet.  It  did  not  fall,  but 
breaking  its  hobbles  and  rushing  among  the 
bushes  it  ran  to  the  other  horses,  pressing  close 


284  HADJI   MUR  AD 

to  them,  and  watering  the  young  grass  with  its 
blood.  Hadji  Miirad  and  his  men  fired  only 
when  any  of  the  militiamen  came  forward,  and 
rarely  missed  their  aim.  Three  militiamen 
were  wounded,  and  the  others,  far  from  making 
up  their  minds  to  rush  the  entrenchment,  re- 
treated further  and  further  back,  only  firing 
from  a  distance  and  at  random. 

So  it  continued  for  more  than  an  hour.  The 
sun  had  risen  to  about  half  the  height  of  the 
trees,  and  Hadji  Murad  was  already  thinking 
of  leaping  on  his  horse  and  trying  to  make  his 
way  to  the  river,  when  the  shouts  were  heard 
of  many  men  who  had  just  arrived.  These 
were  Hadji  Aga  of  Mekhtuli  with  his  followers. 
There  were  about  two  hundred  of  them.  Hadji 
Aga  had  once  been  Hadji  Murad 's  kundk,  and 
had  lived  with  him  in  the  mountains,  but  he  had 
afterwards  gone  over  to  the  Russians.  With 
him  was  Akhmet  Khan,  the  son  of  Hadji  Mu- 
rad's  old  enemy. 

Like  Karganov,  Hadji  Aga  began  by  calling 
to  Hadji  Murad  to  surrender,  and  Hadji  Mur^d 
answered  as  before  with  a  shot. 

''Swords  out,  lads!"  cried  Hadji  Aga,  draw- 


HADJI   MURAD  285 

ing  his  own ;  and  a  hundred  voices  were  raised 
of  men  who  rushed  shrieking  in  among  the 
shrubs. 

The  militiamen  ran  in  among  the  shrubs,  but 
from  beliind  the  entrenchment  came  the  crack 
of  one  shot  after  another.  Some  three  men  fell, 
and  the  attackers  stopped  at  the  outskirts  of  the 
clump  and  also  began  firing.  As  they  fired  they 
gradually  approached  the  entrenchment,  run- 
ning across  from  behind  one  shrub  to  another. 
Some  succeeded  in  getting  across;  others  fell 
under  the  bullets  of  Hadji  Murad  or  of  his  men. 
Hadji  Murad  fired  without  missing;  Gamzalo 
too,  rarely  wasted  a  shot,  and  shrieked  with  joy 
every  time  he  saw  that  his  bullet  had  hit  its 
aim.  Khan  Mahoma  sat  at  the  edge  of  the 
ditch  singing  ''//  lyakha  il  Allah!"  and  fired 
leisurely,  but  often  missed.  Eldar's  whole  body 
trembled  with  impatience  to  rush  dagger  in 
hand  at  the  enemy,  and  he  fired  often  and  at 
random,  constantly  looking  round  at  Hadji  Mu- 
rad and  stretching  out  beyond  the  entrench- 
ment. The  shagg>^  Khanefi,  with  his  sleeves 
rolled  up,  did  the  duty  of  a  servant  even  here. 
He  loaded  the  gims  which  Hadji  Murad  and 


286  HADJI    MUR  AD 

Kahn  Malioma  passed  to  him,  carefully  driving 
home  with  a  ramrod  the  bullets  wrapped  in 
greasy  rags,  and  pouring  dry  powder  out  of 
the  powder-flask  on  to  the  pans.  Bata  did  not 
remain  in  the  ditch  as  the  others  did,  hut  kept 
running  to  the  horses,  driving  them  away  to  a 
safer  place,  and,  shrieking  incessantly,  fired 
without  using  a  prop  for  his  gun.  He  was  the 
first  to  be  wounded.  A  bullet  entered  his  neck, 
and  he  sat  down  spitting  blood  and  swearing. 
Then  Hadji  Murad  was  wounded.,  the  bullet 
piercing  his  shoulder.  He  tore  some  cotton 
wool  from  the  lining  of  his  beshmet,  plugged 
the  wound  with  it,  and  went  on  firing. 

*'Let  us  flay  at  them  with  our  swords!"  said 
Eldar  for  the  third  time,  and  he  looked  out  from 
behind  the  bank  of  earth,  ready  to  rush  at  the 
enemy;  but  at  that  instant  a  bullet  struck  him, 
and  he  reeled  and  fell  backwards  on  to  Hadji 
Murad 's  leg.  Hadji  Murad  glanced  at  him. 
His  beautiful  ram's  eyes  -gazed  intently  and 
seriously  at  Hadji  Murad.  His  mouth,  the  up- 
per lip  pouting  like  a  child's,  twitched  without 
opening.  Hadji  Murad  drew  his  leg  away  from 
under  him  and  continued  firing. 


HADJI   MUR  AD  287 

Khanefi  bent  over  the  dead  Eldar  and  began 
taking"  the  unused  ammunition  out  of  the  car- 
tridge-cases of  his  coat. 

Khan  Mahoma  meanwhile  continued  to  sing, 
loading  leisurely  and  firing.  The  enemy  ran 
from  shrub  to  shrub,  hallooing  and  shrieking, 
and  drawing  ever  nearer  and  nearer. 

Another  bullet  hit  Hadji  Murad  in  the  left 
side.  He  lay  down  in  the  ditch,  and  again 
pulled  some  cotton  wool  out  of  his  heshmet  and 
plugged  the  wound.  This  wound  in  the  side 
was  fatal,  and  he  felt  that  he  was  dying.  Mem- 
ories and  pictures  succeeded  one  another  with 
extraordinary  rapidity  in  his  imagination. 
Now  he  saw  the  powerful  Abu  Nutsal  Khan  as, 
dagger  in  hand  and  holding  up  his  severed 
cheek,  he  rushed  at  his  foe;  then  he  saw  the 
weak,  bloodless  old  Vorontsov,  with  his  cunning- 
white  face,  and  heard  his  soft  voice;  and  then 
he  saw  his  own  son  Yusuf,  his  wife  Sofiat,  and 
then  the  pale,  red-bearded  face  of  his  enemy 
Shamil  with  half-closed  eyes.  All  these 
images  passed  through  his  mind  without  evok- 
ing any  feeling  within  him:  neither  pity  nor 
anger    nor    any    kind    of    desire;    everything 


288  HADJI    MURAD 

seemed  so  insignificant  in  comparison  with 
what  was  beginning,  or  had  already  begun, 
within  him. 

Yet  his  strong  body  continued  the  thing  that 
he  had  commenced.  Gathering  together  his  last 
strength,  he  rose  from  behind  the  bank,  fired 
his  jDistol  at  a  man  who  was  just  running  to- 
wards him,  and  hit  him.  The  man  fell.  Then 
Hadji  Murad  got  quite  out  of  the  ditch,  and, 
limping  heavily,  went  dagger  in  hand  straight 
at  the  foe. 

Some  shots  cracked,  and  he  reeled  and  fell. 
Several  militiamen  with  triumphant  shrieks 
rushed  towards  the  fallen  body.  But  the  body 
that  seemed  to  be  dead,  suddenly  moved.  First 
the  uncovered  bleeding  shaven  head  rose;  then, 
with  hands  holding  to  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  the 
body  rose.  He  seemed  so  terrible  that  those 
who  were  running  towards  him  stopped  short. 
But  suddenly  a  shudder  passed  through  him; 
he  staggered  away  from  the  tree  and  fell  on  his 
face,  stretched  out  at  full  length,  like  a  thistle 
that  had  been  mown  down,  and  he  moved  no 
more. 

He  did  not  move,  but  still  he  felt. 


HADJI   MURAD  289 

"When  Hadji  Aga,  who  was  the  first  to  reach 
him,  struck  him  on  the  head  with  a  large  dagger, 
it  seemed  to  Hadji  Murad  that  some  one  was 
striking  him  with  a  hammer,  and  he  could  not 
understand  who  was  doing  it,  or  why.  That 
was  his  last  consciousness  of  any  connection 
with  his  body.  He  felt  nothing  more,  and  his 
enemies  kicked  and  hacked  at  what  had  no 
longer  anything  in  common  with  him. 

Hadji  Aga  placed  his  foot  on  the  back  of  the 
corpse,  and  with  two  blows  cut  off  the  head,  and 
carefully — not  to  soil  his  shoes  with  blood — 
rolled  it  away  with  his  foot.  Crimson  blood 
spurted  from  the  arteries  of  the  neck,  and  black 
blood  flowed  from  the  head,  soaking  the  grass. 

Karganov  and  Hadji  Aga  and  Akhmet  Khan 
and  all  the  militiamen  gathered  together — like 
sportsmen  round  a  slaughtered  animal — near 
the  bodies  of  Hadji  Murad  and  his  men 
(Khanefi,  Khan  Mahoma,  and  Gamzalo  were 
bound),  and  amid  the  powder-smoke  which  hung 
over  the  bushes,  they  triumphed  in  their 
victory. 

The  nightingales,  that  had  hushed  their  songs 
while  the  firing  lasted,  now  started  their  trills 


290  HADJI   MURAD 

once  more :  first  one  quite  close,  then  others  in 
the  distance. 

«  •  •  •  • 

It  was  of  this  death  that  I  was  reminded  by 
the  crushed  thistle  in  the  midst  of  the  ploughed 
field. 


The  Light  That  Shines  in  Darkness 


PREFACE 

TOLSTOY  AS  DRAMATIST 

In  almost  evxry  kind  of  literary  work  he  touched, 
Tolstoy  succeeded  at  once  in  reaching  the  fore- 
most rank. 

When  he  sent  his  first  story,  Childhood,  anony- 
mously to  the  poet  Nekrasov,  editor  of  The  Con- 
temporary ^^then  tne  leading  Petersburg  maga- 
zine), the  latter  promptly  accepted  and  published 
it;  Dostoyevsky  was  so  struck  by  it  that  he  wrote 
from  Siberia  to  inquire  who  its  talented  author 
was;  Turgenev  sang  its  praises,  and  Panaev  was 
so  delighted  with  it  that  his  friends,  it  was  said, 
had  to  avoid  him  on  the  Nevsky  lest  he  should  in- 
sist on  reading  them  extracts  from  it. 

When  Tolstoy  turned  from  stories  to  novels  he 
achieved  the  same  immediate  and  complete  suc- 
cess. The  appearance  of  the  first  instalment  of 
War  and  Peace  sufficed  to  place  him  abreast  of  the 
world's  greatest  writers  of  fiction. 

Fourteen  years  later  he  turned  to  spiritual  auto- 

5 


6  PREFACE 

biography,  and  his  Confession  immediately  took 
rank  beside  those  of  St.  Augustine  and  Rousseau. 

When  he  propounded  his  interpretation  of 
Christ's  teaching,  his  works  produced  a  profound 
impression  and,  though  they  were  prohibited  in 
Russia,  found  a  large  circulation  abroad  besides 
a  surreptitious  one  at  home. 

Next  he  took  to  writing  short,  simple  stories 
for  the  people,  and  the  very  first  of  these,  What 
Men  Live  By  (v.  Twenty-three  Tales),  circulated 
by  hundreds  of  thousands  of  copies  in  Russia,  was 
translated  into  all  civilised  languages,  and  de- 
lighted people,  old  and  young.  In  the  five  conti- 
nents. 

When  he  turned  his  attention  to  social  prob- 
lems, and  wrote  fVhat  Then  Must  We  Do?  the 
book  aroused  the  deepest  Interest  wherever  It  was 
read,  and  was  promptly  recognised  as  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  studies  of  poverty  ever  penned. 

He  took  to  essays,  and  at  once  produced  a 
series  which  many  readers  have  declared  to  be  as 
Interesting  and  stimulating  as  any  that  were  ever 
written. 

Interested  in  the  philosophy  of  art,  he  wrote 
What  is  Art?     His  preparation  for  this  attempt 


PREFACE  7 

to  put  art  on  a  new  basis  took  him,  it  is  true,  fifteen 
years,  and  a  majority  of  critics  everywhere  de- 
nounced the  opinions  he  expressed;  but,  at  any 
rate,  there  was  no  doubt  about  the  general  interest 
he  aroused,  and  the  longer  the  matter  is  discussed, 
the  stronger  grows  the  suspicion  that  on  the  main 
point  of  the  discussion  Tolstoy  saw  deeper  than  his 
critics,  and  that,  great  artist  as  he  was,  his  phi- 
losophy of  art  as  well  as  his  practice  of  it  was 
fundamentally  sound. 

Finally  his  philippics,  such  as  his  Reply  to  the 
Synod,  which  had  excommunicated  him  (v.  Essays 
and  Letters)^  and  his  denunciation  of  the  Courts- 
martial  in  /  Cannot  he  Silent!  rang  out  with  a  sin- 
cerity, courage,  and  effectiveness  unparalleled  since 
Pascal's  Provincial  Letters,  or  the  famous  theses 
Luther  nailed  to  the  church  door  at  Wittenberg. 

Only  as  a  dramatist  did  Tolstoy  fail  at  his  first 
attempt;  and  even  in  that  direction  success  came 
so  promptly  that  it  is  his  success  rather  than  his 
failure  that  surprises  one. 

As  a  seventeen-year-old  student  at  Kazan  Uni- 
versity, he  had  taken  part  with  much  success  in 
two  plays  given  for  some  charity  at  Carnival  time; 
and  his  taste   for  theatricals  did  not  soon   pass, 


8  PREFACE 

for  in  later  years,  when  writing  of  the  time  after 
his  return  from  the  defence  of  Sevastopol,  and  tell- 
ing of  the  death  of  his  brother  Demetrius,  he 
adds:  "  I  really  believe  that  what  hurt  me  most 
was  that  his  death  prevented  my  taking  part  in 
some  private  theatricals  then  being  got  up  at 
Court  and  to  which  I  had  been  invited." 

While  living  in  Petersburg  and  Moscow  as  a 
young  man,  Tolstoy  was  enthusiastic  in  his  admira- 
tion of  one  of  the  great  Russian  actors  of  those 
days;  but  he  never  lived  much  in  cities,  and  prob- 
ably no  other  great  dramatist  ever  spent  so  little 
time  in  the  theatre  as  he  did.  In  that,  as  in  many 
other  lines  of  work,  his  quickness  of  perception, 
tenacity  of  memory  and  vividness  of  emotion  en- 
abled him  to  dispense  with  the  long  training  men 
of  less  genius  require. 

In  1863,  soon  after  his  marriage,  he  wrote  two 
plays  which  were  never  published.  One,  a  farcical 
comedy  called  The  Nihilist,  was  privately  per- 
formed with  much  success.  The  other,  also  a 
comedy,  called  The  Infected  Family,  he  intended 
for  public  performance.  With  that  end  in  view, 
Tolstoy  took  it  to  Moscow  early  in  1864.  The 
theatrical  season  (which  in  Russia  ends  at  the  be- 


PREFACE  9 

ginning  of  Lent)  was  then,  however,  too  far  ad- 
vanced for  any  manager  to  stage  the  piece  that 
winter;  and,  as  it  dealt  with  a  topic  of  the  day 
which  lost  some  of  its  freshness  by  keeping,  Tol- 
stoy never  afterwards  offered  it  to  any  one. 

That  was  the  one  and  only  rebuff  he  ever  had 
to  face  in  his  literary  career,  if  one  excepts  the 
amusing  incident  of  his  sending  a  short  prose  poem 
anonymously  to  a  Moscow  newspaper,  and  re- 
ceiving it  back  declined  with  thanks,  on  the  ground 
that  its  author  was  "  not  yet  sufficiently  expert  in 
expression  !  "  For  the  next  six  years  he  seems  not 
to  have  taken  any  interest  in  the  drama;  but  in 
1870  we  find  him  writing  to  Fet:  — 

"  There  is  much,  very  much,  I  want  to  tell  you 
about.  I  have  been  reading  a  lot  of  Shakespear, 
Goethe,  Pushkin,  Gogol  and  Moliere,  and  about 
all  of  them  there  is  much  I  want  to  say  to  you." 

A  few  days  later  he  again  wrote  to  the  same 
friend:  — 

"  You  want  to  read  me  a  story  of  cavalry  life 

And  I  don't  want  to  read  you  anything, 

because   T   am   not  writing   anything;   but   I   very 

much     want     to     talk     about     Shakespear     and 

Goethe,   and  the  drama  in  general.     This  whole 


10  PREFACE 

winter  I  am  occupied  only  with  the  drama;  and  it 
happens  to  me,  as  usually  happens  to  people  who, 
till  they  are  forty,  have  not  thought  of  a  certain 
subject,  or  formed  any  conception  of  it;  and  then 
suddenly,  with  forty-year-old  clearness,  turn  their 
attention  to  this  new,  untasted  subject  —  it  seems 
to  them  that  they  discern  In  it  much  that  is  new. 
All  winter  I  have  enjoyed  myself  lying  down, 
drowsing,  playing  bezique,  snow-shoeing,  skating, 
and  most  of  all  lying  in  bed  (ill)  while  characters 
from  a  drama  or  comedy  have  performed  for  me. 
And  they  perform  very  well.  It  is  about  that  I 
want  to  talk  to  you.  In  that,  as  in  everything,  you 
are  a  classic  and  understand  the  essence  of  the 
matter  very  deeply.  I  should  like  also  to  read 
Sophocles  and  Euripides." 

The  mood  passed,  and  for  another  fifteen  years 
one  hears  no  more  about  it:  Tolstoy  being 
absorbed  first  in  the  production  of  an  ABC  Book 
for  school-children,  then  with  Anna  Karenina, 
then  with  his  Confession  and  religious  studies,  as 
well  as  with  field-work,  hut-building,  and  boot- 
making. 

Early  in  1886,  noting  the  wretched  character  of 
the    plays   given    in   the    booths   at    the    Carnival 


PREFACE  ir 

Shows  on  the  Maidens'  Field  just  outside  Moscow, 
not  far  from  his  own  house,  and  feeling  how 
wrong  It  was  that  the  dramatic  food  of  the  people 
should  consist  of  the  crudest  melodramas,  he  was 
moved  to  turn  into  a  play  a  small  Temperance 
story  he  had  written.  This  piece,  called  The  First 
Distiller,  is  of  no  great  Importance  In  Itself,  but 
was  the  precursor  of  the  splendid  dramas  he  soon 
afterwards  produced. 

The  following  summer,  while  out  ploughing,  he 
hurts  his  leg,  neglects  it,  and  gets  erysipelas,  which 
almost  leads  to  blood-poisoning.  His  life  is  in 
Imminent  danger,  he  has  to  undergo  a  painful 
operation,  is  laid  up  for  weeks,  and  while  ill  writes 
most  of  The  Power  of  Darkness,  an  immensely 
powerful  play  which  serves  as  a  touchstone  for 
those  who  have  the  Tolstoy  feeling  in  them. 

From  the  poisoning  of  Peter,  the  husband,  in 
the  beginning,  to  the  murder  of  the  baby  In  the 
middle,  and  NIkita's  arrest  at  the  end,  the  piece 
is  full  of  horrors  which  most  people,  who  do  not 
look  at  things  from  Tolstoy's  point  of  view,  find 
it  wellnigh  impossible  to  endure.  To  them  the 
play  appears  to  be  one  of  unmitigated  blackness. 
To  Tolstoyans  it  is  not  so.     The  lies,  the  crimes, 


12  PREFACE 

the  horrors  are  there,  as  in  real  life;  but  in  the 
play  one  sees  more  clearly  than  in  common  life 
the  clue  to  the  meaning  of  it  all.  When  Nikita's 
conscience  begins  to  be  touched;  when  Mitritch, 
the  old  soldier,  teaches  him  not  to  be  afraid  of 
men;  and  finally  when  Akim,  the  old  father, 
rejoices  that  his  son  has  confessed,  the  heavens 
open  and  the  purpose  of  life  —  the  preparing  for 
what  is  yet  to  come  by  getting  things  straight 
here  anci  now  —  is  revealed;  and  the  effect  of  the 
play,  instead  of  being  sordid  or  painful,  becomes 
inspiring. 

The  play  was  founded  on  fact,  though  what 
happened  in  real  life  was  even  more  gruesome, 
for  in  actual  fact  Nikita's  prototype,  when  on 
the  point  of  driving  off  to  Akulina's  wedding, 
suddenly  seized  a  large  wooden  wedge  and  aimed 
a  tremendous  blow  at  her  younger  sister;  and  he 
did  this  not  out  of  malice,  but  because  he  felt  so 
sure  that  it  is  a  misfortune  to  be  alive  in  a  world 
where  things  have  gone  so  wrong  as  they  have 
done  in  the  world  we  live  in.  Fortunately  his 
blow,  which  seemed  certain  to  kill  the  girl,  glanced 
aside,  and  merely  stunned  her  without  doing  her 
any  permanent  injury. 


PREFACE  13 

The  Power  of  Darkness  was  prohibited  by  the 
Dramatic  Censor,  and  throughout  the  reign  of 
Alexander  III.  its  public  performance  in  Russia 
was  forbidden. 

It  was  produced  for  the  first  time  at  the  Theatre 
Libre  in  Paris,  in  February  1888.  Among  its 
most  enthusiastic  admirers  was  Zola,  who  was  as 
anxious  about  it  as  he  could  hav^e  been  had  it 
been  his  own  work.  "  Above  all,  do  not  strike 
out  a  single  scene  or  a  single  word,  and  do  not 
fear  for  its  success,"  said  he  at  one  of  the  re- 
hearsals; and  he  was  quite  right.  The  piece  had  a 
tremendous  success,  and  was  played  at  one  and  the 
same  time  at  three  different  Paris  theatres,  as 
well  as  at  the  Freie  Biihnen  in  Berlin,  where  it 
had  a  similar  triumph.  After  the  accession  of 
Nicholas  II.  it  was  acted  in  Russia,  and  took 
rank  at  once  as  one  of  the  greatest  masterpieces  of 
Russian  dramatic  art,  and  as  such  holds  a  place  in 
the  repertory  of  the  best  Moscow  and  Petersburg 
theatres. 

Many  Englishmen  who  have  seen  it  have  been 
immensely  impressed  by  It.  Laurence  Irving 
wrote  me:  "  I  suppose  England  is  the  only  country 
in  Europe  where  The  Power  of  Darkness  has  not 


14  PREFACE 

been  acted.  It  ought  to  be  done.  It  is  a  stupen- 
dous tragedy;  the  effect  on  the  stage  Is  unparal- 
leled." Bernard  Shaw,  writing  to  Tolstoy,  said, 
"  I  remember  nothing  in  the  whole  range  of 
drama  that  fascinated  me  more  than  the  old 
soldier  in  your  Power  of  Darkness.  One  of  the 
things  that  struck  me  in  that  play  was  the  feeling 
that  the  preaching  of  the  old  man,  right  as  he  was, 
could  never  be  of  any  use  —  that  it  could  only 
anger  his  son  and  rub  the  last  grains  of  self- 
respect  out  of  him.  But  what  the  pious  and  good 
father  could  not  do,  the  old  rascal  of  a  soldier 
did  as  if  he  was  the  voice  of  God.  To  me  that 
scene,  where  the  two  drunkards  are  wallowing  in 
the  straw  and  the  older  rascal  lifts  the  younger 
one  above  his  cowardice  and  his  selfishness,  has 
an  intensity  of  effect  that  no  merely  romantic 
scene  could  possibly  attain."  Arthur  Symons 
wrote:  "More  than  any  play  I  have  ever  seen, 
this  astounding  play  of  Tolstoy's  seems  to  me  to 
fulfil  Aristotle's  demand  upon  tragedy:  'Through 
pity  and  fear  effecting  the  proper  purgation  of 
these  emotions.'  I  had  never  read  it;  my  im- 
pression was  gained  directly  from  seeing  it  on  the 
stage.     Well,  though  as  I  listened  to  it  I  felt  the 


PREFACE  15 

pity  and  fear  to  be  almost  insupportable,   I  left 
the  theatre  with  a  feeling  of  exultation,  as  I  have 
left  a  concert  room  after  hearing  a  piece  of  noble 
and  tragic  music.     How  out  of  such  human  dis- 
cords such  a  divine  harmony  can  be  woven  I  do 
not  know;  that  is  the  secret  of  Tolstoy's  genius,  as 
it  is  the  secret  of  the  musician's.      Here,  achieved 
In  terms  of  naked  horror,   I   found  some  of  the 
things  that  Maeterlinck  has  aimed  at  and  never 
quite  rendered  through  an  atmosphere  and  through 
forms  of  vague  beauty.     And  I   found  also  an- 
other kind  of  achievement,  by  the  side  of  which 
Ibsen's    cunning    adjustments    of    reality    seemed 
either  trivial  or  unreal.     Here,  for  once,  human 
life  is  islanded  on  the  stage,  a  pin-point  of  light  In 
an  Immense  darkness;  and  the  sense  of  that  sur- 
rounding darkness  is  conveyed  to  us  as  in  no  other 
play  that  I  have  ever  seen,  by  an  awful  sincerity 
and  by  an  unparalleled  simplicity.     Whether  Tol- 
stoy has  learnt  by  instinct  some  stage-craft  which 
playwrights  have  been  toiling  after  in  vain,  or  by 
what  conscious  and  deliberate  art  he  has  supple- 
mented instinct,  I  do  not  know.     But,  out  of  hor- 
ror and  humour,  out  of  the  dregs  of  human  life 
and  out  of  mere  faith  in  those  dregs,  somehow,  as 


1 6  PREFACE 

a  man  of  genius  does  once  in  an  age,  Tolstoy  has 
in  this  play  made  for  us  the  great  modern  play, 
the  great  play  of  the  nineteenth  century." 

That  Tolstoy  should  thus  have  begun  success- 
ful play-writing  at  a  time  when  he  was  supposed 
to  have  turned  aside  from  art,  and  when  he  was 
nearly  sixty  years  of  age,  was  remarkable;  but  at 
any  rate  The  Power  of  Darkness  was  a  serious 
piece,  obviously  dealing  with  moral  questions 
which  stirred  his  soul  profoundly  at  the  time;  and, 
moreover,  he  wrote  it  for  the  People's  Theatre, 
started  to  provide  first-rate  drama  for  the  peas- 
ants. It  came,  therefore,  as  a  yet  greater  sur- 
prise to  many  people  when,  three  years  later,  he 
was  persuaded  by  his  daughters  to  write  a  comedy 
for  them  to  perform  at  home,  Yasnaya  Polyana. 

One  knows  pretty  well  how  it  happened.  The 
taste  for  play-writing  was  strong  upon  him. 
After  more  than  twelve  years  devoted  to  didactic 
work  which  gave  his  sense  of  humour  little  or  no 
scope,  it  was  in  the  nature  of  things  that  he  should 
feel  some  reaction. 

At  first  the  play  was  to  have  been  only  a  short 
two-act  affair.  He  did  not  like  to  refuse  his 
daughters'  request,  and  thought  that  if  they  must 


PREFACE  17 

act  something,  It  was  better  that  they  should  act  a 
play  voicing  his  contempt  for  the  follies  and  ex- 
travagance of  society  and  his  consciousness  of  the 
peasants'  needs.  Once  started  on  the  work,  how- 
ever, it  took  hold  of  him  and  grew  and  grew,  till 
it  became  a  full-fledged  four-act  comedy  with  over 
thirty  speaking  characters  in  it,  and  with  the 
didactic  purpose  overwhelmed  by  the  fun,  the 
bustle,  and  the  stage-craft  of  it. 

After  many  rehearsals  this  play.  Fruits  of  Cul- 
ture, was  performed  at  Yasnaya  Polyana  on  De- 
cember 30,  1889,  with  immense  success.  Tanya, 
Tolstoy's  eldest  daughter,  took  the  part  of  her 
namesake  in  the  play  very  successfully,  and  Mary, 
his  second  daughter,  played  the  cook  most  admir- 
ably, 

Tolstoy  himself  heartily  enjoyed  the  perform- 
ance. One  greatly  respects  his  thirty-year 
struggle  to  live  a  simple  life,  consuming  little  and 
giving  much;  but  one  does  not  love  him  the  less 
for  the  occasional  lapses  into  whole-hearted  gaiety 
which  light  up  the  record  of  his  life,  and  show 
us  how  very  human  was  this  giant.  Yasnaya 
Polyana,  on  New  Year's  eve  1889,  crammed  with 
guests  all  in  the  highest  spirits;  the  large  upstairs 


1 8  PREFACE 

room  full  of  spectators  laughing  till  their  sides 
ached  at  Tolstoy's  comedy,  is  a  scene  those  who 
would  understand  Tolstoy  should  by  no  means 
forget  or  despise.  Yet,  even  then,  the  other  side 
of  his  nature,  which  never  let  him  rest,  caused  him 
to  note  in  his  Diary:  "  I  am  ashamed  of  all  this 
expense  in  the  midst  of  poverty." 

The  whole  company  threw  themselves  into  the 
piece  with  enthusiasm,  and  acted  really  well.  In 
particular,  V.  M.  Lopatin,  a  neighbouring  Justice 
of  the  Peace,  extracted  from  the  part  of  the  Third 
Peasant  so  much  more  than  its  author  had  antici- 
pated or  even  intended,  that  Tolstoy,  in  ecstasies, 
slapped  his  thighs  and  laughed  till  the  tears  rolled 
down  his  cheeks;  for  he  was  always  extremely  sus- 
ceptible to  anything  really  good,  whether  in  acting 
or  in  other  forms  of  art. 

I  well  remember  meeting  at  Yasnaya  Polyana, 
on  two  different  occasions,  the  sculptor  Ginzburg, 
who  was  an  admirable  mimic.  He  could  keep  a 
room  full  of  people  entranced  while  he  enacted 
a  Jew  tailor  stitching  clothes,  or  a  nurse  tending 
or  neglecting  an  imaginary  baby.  None  of  those 
present  expressed  warmer  admiration  of  these  per- 
formances than  did  Tolstoy  himself,  and  when  he 


PREFACE  19 

went  for  a  walk  with  us  afterwards,  he  said  to 
Ginzburg  with  great  animation: 

"  Ah,  if  our  theatre  realists  could  only  be  got  to 
understand  that  what  is  wanted  is  not  to  put  real 
babies  on  the  stage  or  show  the  real  messes  they 
make,  but  to  convey,  as  you  do,  by  voice  and  fea- 
ture the  real  feeling  that  has  to  be  expressed!  " 

No  blunder  made  by  Tolstoy's  critics  is  more 
gratuitous  or  indefensible  than  the  pretence  that 
he  was  indifferent  to  the  form  of  art,  or  demanded 
of  it  that  it  should  always  have  a  directly  didactic 
intention. 

Not  without  express  purpose  did  he,  in  JFhat 
is  Art?  write,  "  Art  is  a  means  of  union  among 
men,  joining  them  together  in  the  same  feelings, 
and  indispensable  for  the  life  and  progress 
towards  well-being  of  individuals  and  of  hu- 
manity " ;  and  he  then  goes  on  to  say :  "  Thanks  to 
man's  capacity  to  be  infected  with  the  feelings  of 
others  by  means  of  art,  all  that  is  being  lived 
through  by  his  contemporaries  is  accessible  to  him, 
as  well  as  the  feelings  experienced  by  men 
thousands  of  years  ago,  and  he  has  also  the  possi- 
bility of  transmitting  his  own  feelings  to  others." 

"  If  men  lacked  this  capacity  of  being  infected 


20  PREFACE 

by  art,  people  would  be  more  separated  and  hos- 
tile to  one  another,  and  more  savage  than  wild 
beasts.  Therefore,  the  activity  of  art  is  a  most 
important  one  —  as  important  as  the  activity  of 
speech  itself,  and  as  generally  diffused."  And  in 
a  memorable  passage  he  adds,  "  We  are  accus- 
tomed to  understand  art  to  be  only  what  we  hear 
and  see  in  theatres,  concerts,  and  exhibitions;  to- 
gether with  buildings,  statues,  poems,  novels. 
But  all  this  is  but  the  smallest  part  of  the 
art  by  which  we  communicate  with  each  other  in 
life.  All  human  life  is  filled  with  works  of  art  of 
every  kind  —  from  cradle-song,  jest,  mimicry,  the 
ornamentation  of  houses,  dress,  and  utensils,  up  to 
church  services,  buildings,  monuments,  and  tri- 
umphal processions.     It  is  all  artistic  activity." 

He  insists  again  and  again  on  the  value  and 
prevalence  of  art,  and  when  speaking  of  those 
primitive  Christians  and  others  who  have  wished 
to  repudiate  art,  he  says,  "  Evidently  such  people 
were  wrong  in  repudiating  all  art,  for  they  denied 
that  which  cannot  be  denied — one  of  the  indis- 
pensable means  of  communication,  without  which 
mankind  could  not  exist." 

Tolstoy   knew   very   well   that    a   performance 


Tolstoy's  Daughters  Tatyana  and  Marya  Luoina. 


PREFACE  21 

must  be  excellent  in  its  form  and  method  of  ex- 
pression in  order  to  be  a  work  of  art.  In  the 
illustration  he  gives  of  the  performance  of  music, 
for  instance,  he  says  that  for  musical  execution  to 
be  artistic  and  to  transmit  feeling,  many  condi- 
tions are  necessary,  of  which  the  three  chief  are 
the  pitch,  the  time,  and  the  strength  of  the  sound, 
and  he  adds:  "  Musical  execution  is  only  then  art, 
only  then  infects,  when  the  sound  is  neither  higher 
nor  lower  than  it  should  be  —  that  is,  when  exactly 
the  infinitely  small  centre  of  the  required  note  is 
taken;  when  that  note  is  continued  exactly  as  long 
as  needed;  and  when  the  strength  of  the  sound  is 
neither  more  nor  less  than  is  required.  The 
slightest  deviation  of  pitch  in  either  direction,  the 
slightest  increase  or  decrease  in  time,  or  the 
slightest  strengthening  or  weakening  of  the  sound 
beyond  what  is  needed,  destroys  the  perfection 
and,  consequently,  the  infectiousness  of  the  work. 
So  that  the  feeling  of  infection  by  the  art  of  music, 
which  seems  so  simple  and  so  easily  obtained,  is  a 
thing  we  receive  only  when  the  performer  finds 
those  Infinitely  minute  degrees  which  are  necessary 
to  perfection  in  music.  It  Is  the  same  in  all  arts: 
a  wee  bit  lighter,    a  wee   bit   darker,   a   wee  bit 


22  PREFACE 

higher,  lower,  to  the  right  or  the  left  —  in  paint- 
ing; a  wee  bit  weaker  or  stronger  in  intonation,  or 
a  wee  bit  sooner  or  later  —  in  dramatic  art;  a  wee 
bit  omitted,  over-emphasised,  or  exaggerated  — 
in  poetry,  and  there  is  no  contagion.  It  is  only 
obtained  when  an  artist  finds  those  infinitely  minute 
degrees  of  which  a  work  of  art  consists,  and  only 
to  the  extent  to  which  he  finds  them." 

Confronted  by  words  such  as  these,  it  is  amaz- 
ing that  any  one  can  pretend  that  Tolstoy  was  in- 
different to  quality  in  the  forms  of  art;  but  not 
less  amazing  is  the  assertion  that  only  what  is 
directly  moralising  was  considered  by  him  fit 
subject-matter  for  art.  On  this  point  his  words 
are  decisive,  when  he  includes  among  the  subject- 
matter  suitable  for  good  art,  "  the  simplest  feel- 
ings of  common  life." 

The  truth  Is  that,  in  spite  of  certain  preposses- 
sions which  tend  to  confuse  the  matter,  and  in  spite 
of  his  pugnacious  controversial  methods,  which 
often  led  to  recrimination  rather  than  to  elucida- 
tion, Tolstoy's  greatness  as  an  artist  was  increased 
by  the  fact  that  he  thoroughly  understood  the  aim 
and  purpose  of  art;  and  he  was  able  to  speak  with 
authority  on  the  philosophy  of  art,  just  because  he 


PREFACE  23 

was  one  of  the  most  intellectual  and  intelligent  of 
the  world's  artists. 

As  mentioned  in  my  Life  of  Tolstoy,  the  main 
theme  in  Fruits  of  Culture  was  drawn  from  Tol- 
stoy's acquaintance  with  the  Lvovs,  a  wealthy  and 
aristocratic  family,  the  head  of  which  wished  to 
convert  Tolstoy  to  spiritualism.  The  latter 
sturdily  maintained  a  sceptical  attitude,  arguing 
that  since  mankind  has  been  at  the  pains  to  dis- 
criminate between  matter  (which  can  be  investi- 
gated by  the  five  senses)  and  spirit  (which  is  an 
affair  of  the  conscience,  and  cannot  be  investi- 
gated by  the  senses),  we  must  not  again  confuse 
the  two  by  attempting  to  find  physical  evidence  of 
spiritual  existence.  If  the  phenomena  we  are 
investigating  is  cognisable  by  the  senses,  then,  he 
argued,  such  phenomena  are,  ipso  facto,  not 
spiritual,  but  material.  In  this,  as  in  certain  other 
matters,  Tolstoy,  seeking  clearness,  painted  in 
black  and  white,  and  shunned  those  delicate  shades 
which  often  elude  and  perplex  us  —  but  without 
which,  after  all,  it  is  not  always  possible  to  get  a 
true  picture. 

Fruits  of  Culture  found  its  way  on  to  the  public 
stage  in  Russia  before   The  Power  of  Darkness, 


24  PREFACE 

and  both  there  and  abroad  the  two  plays  have  been 
almost  equally  successful.  It  is  often  treated  as 
pure  comedy,  and  the  peasants  presented  as  simply 
comic  characters.  This  Tolstoy  did  not  intend, 
and  did  not  like.  He  meant  the  hardness  of  their 
lot  and  their  urgent  need  of  land  to  stand  out  in 
sharp  contrast  to  the  waste  of  wealth  by  the  cul- 
tured crowd. 

During  the  last  thirty  years  of  his  life  Tolstoy 
himself  used,  as  is  well  known,  to  dress  much  like 
a  peasant,  though  never  in  the  beggar-pilgrim 
garb  in  which  he  is  made  to  figure  in  a  Life  of  him 
recently  published  in  this  country;  and  it  happened 
that  one  winter's  day,  when  Fruits  of  Culture  was 
being  rehearsed  in  Tula  (the  nearest  town  to  Yas- 
naya  Polyana),  he  went,  by  request,  to  the  hall 
where  it  was  being  staged.  Wearing  his  rough 
sheepskin  overcoat,  he  attempted  to  enter,  but  was 
roughly  shoved  out  by  the  doorkeeper,  who  told 
him  it  was  no  place  for  the  likes  of  him ! 

The  same  year  the  play  was  presented  at  Tsar- 
skoe  Selo,  by  amateurs  drawn  from  the  high- 
est circles  of  Court  society,  and  was  witnessed 
by  a  dozen  Grand  Dukes  and  Grand-Duchesses 
as   well    as   by   the   Tsar   himself,    who    warmly 


PREFACE  25 

thanked  the  performers  for  the  pleasure  it 
had  given  him.  So  the  whirligig  of  time  brought 
it  about  that  Tolstoy,  who  twenty-three  years  be- 
fore had  just  missed  his  chance  of  acting  at  the 
Imperial  Court,  now  had  a  play  of  his  own  per- 
formed there,  while  he  himself  was  being  mistaken 
for  a  peasant,  and  on  that  account  treated  with 
gross  indignity. 

We  have  Tolstoy's  word  for  it  that  he  would 
have  written  more  plays  had  it  not  been  for  the 
censor.  He  once  said,  "  I  feel  certain  the  censor 
would  not  pass  my  plays.  You  would  not  believe 
how,  from  the  very  commencement  of  my  activity, 
that  horrible  censor  question  has  tormented  me! 
I  wanted  to  write  what  I  felt;  but  at  the  same  time 
it  occurred  to  me  that  what  I  wrote  would  not 
be  permitted,  and  involuntarily  I  had  to  abandon 
the  work.  I  abandoned,  and  went  on  abandoning, 
and  meanwhile  the  years  passed  away." 

He  once  expressed  surprise  that,  in  Fruits  of 
Culture,  the  drunken  man-cook's  monologue  on  the 
ways  of  the  rich  folk  was  allowed  to  be  performed. 

Of  the  three  plays  left  by  Tolstoy  for  publi- 
cation after  his  death,  one  is  a  short  two-act  Tem- 
perance play  called  in  English  The  Cause  of  it  All 


26  PREFACE 

(the  Russian  title  is  a  colloquialism  diflficult  to  ren- 
der, but  "  From  it  all  evil  flows  "  is  as  near  as 
one  can  get  to  it) .  It  does  not  claim  to  be  a  piece 
of  much  importance,  but  if  ever  it  is  staged,  it 
should  act  easily  and  well. 

Another  of  these  posthumous  plays  is  The  Man 
That  Was  Dead  (The  Live  Corpse),  a  powerful 
piece,  in  which  Tolstoy  introduces  one  of  those 
gipsy  choirs  which  had  such  an  influence  on  him 
(and  still  more  on  his  brother  Sergius)  when  he 
was  a  young  man  of  twenty  to  twenty-three,  before 
he  went  to  the  Caucasus  and  entered  the  army. 

The  position  of  the  gipsy  choirs  in  Russia  is 
a  peculiar  one.  Reputedly  Egyptian  in  origin 
("  Pharaoh's  Tribe,"  one  of  the  characters  in  the 
play  calls  them),  they  live  a  life  quite  distinct 
from  that  of  the  Russians,  yet  not  at  all  resem- 
bling that  of  the  itinerant  gipsies  one  meets  travel- 
ling about  with  caravans  in  England.  They 
possess  a  remarkable  musical  talent,  having  a  kind 
of  music  both  vocal  and  instrumental  all  their 
own.  They  perform  at  special  restaurants  in  the 
suburbs  of  Moscow,  and  also  give  concerts  in  pub- 
lic halls  and  at  private  houses.  It  is  no  more 
unusual  for  Russian  noblemen  to  marry  gipsy  girls 


PREFACE  27 

than  it  Is  for  English  noblemen  to  marry  Gaiety 
girls.  The  songs  referred  to  in  Scene  II  are  all 
well-known  gipsy  songs,  and  if  staged  with  a  real 
gipsy  choir  to  perform  them,  this  should  be  one  of 
the  most  striking  scenes  In  the  play. 

Tolstoy  himself  held  that  gipsy  music  deserved 
to  rank  among  the  best  kinds  of  music,  on  account 
of  its  genuine  spontaneity,  the  depth  of  feeling  In 
It,  and  the  exquisite  perfection  with  which  It  is 
rendered  by  the  gipsies.  His  own  daughters  used 
to  play  and  sing  gipsy  songs  admirably. 

The  main  plot  of  this  play,  like  that  of  The 
Power  of  Darkness,  was  supplied  to  Tolstoy  by 
his  friend  N.  V.  Davydov,  a  Judge  and  a  Lecturer 
on  criminal  law  at  Moscow  University,  who  fre- 
quently drevp»  his  attention  to  cases  that  occurred 
In  the  Law  Courts,  and  which  Davydov  thought 
might  provide  suitable  subjects  for  a  story  or  a 
drama. 

Curiously  enough,  after  Tolstoy  had  written 
this  play,  he  was  visited  first  by  the  stepson  of  the 
"  live  corpse,"  and  then  by  the  "  live  corpse  "  him- 
self. The  latter  had  been  convicted,  had  served 
his  time,  and  had  returned  to  Moscow.  He  had 
given  up  drink  and  was  seeking  means  of  subsist- 


28  PREFACE 

ence,  when  he  heard  of  the  play  Tolstoy  was  writ- 
ing, and  that  it  was  founded  on  his  own  case. 
Tolstoy  questioned  him  carefully,  and  as  a  result 
of  the  conversation  rewrote  the  play  in  order  to 
set  the  conduct  of  the  corpse  in  a  more  favourable 
light  than  before.  In  this  revised  version  Tol- 
stoy makes  him  finally  commit  suicide,  whereas  in 
an  earlier  version  the  law  took  its  course  as  it  did 
in  real  life,  and  matters  only  settled  down  and 
adjusted  themselves  after  his  victims  had  served 
their  sentences  and  justice  had  ceased  to  meddle. 

Tolstoy  also  gave  the  "  corpse  "  a  letter  to 
Davydov,  who  obtained  for  him  some  small  post 
at  the  Law  Courts,  where  he  served  till  his  death; 
no  one  but  his  benefactors  and  his  own  family 
knowing  who  he  was.  Some  time  after  his  death 
Davydov  told  me  this  about  him. 

Part  of  the  attraction  of  the  story  for  Tolstoy 
lay  in  the  fact  that  the  intervention  of  the  law  did 
no  good  to  any  one,  but  only  harm  to  all  con- 
cerned; for  it  was  part  and  parcel  of  Tolstoy's 
non-resistant  theory  that  Law  Courts  and  the 
Administration  of  justice  are  purely  noxious. 

The  Man  That  Was  Dead  has  already  been 
staged  at  the  Artistic  Theatre  in  Moscow,  and  it 


PREFACE  29 

is  to  be  hoped  that  we  shall  see  It  in  London;  but 
the  last  of  Tolstoy's  plays,  The  Light  That  Shines 
in  Darkness,  was  left  unfinished,  and  is  hardly 
likely  to  be  produced,  unless  by  the  Stage  Society, 
or  some  similar  organisation.  In  Russia  It  is  pro- 
hibited on  account  of  its  allusions  to  the  refusal  of 
military  service. 

Yet  it  is  in  some  ways  the  most  interesting  of 
Tolstoy's  posthumous  works.  It  is  obviously  not 
strictly  autobiographical,  for  Tolstoy  was  not 
assassinated  as  the  hero  of  the  piece  is,  nor  was 
his  daughter  engaged  to  be  married  to  a  young 
prince  who  refused  military  service.  But  like 
some  of  his  other  writings,  the  play  is  semi-autobi- 
ographical. In  it,  not  only  has  Tolstoy  utilised 
personal  experiences,  but  more  than  that,  he 
answers  the  question  so  often  asked :  Why,  hold- 
ing his  views,  did  he  not  free  himself  from 
property  before  he  grew  old? 

Some  people,  and  especially  some  of  those  most 
devoted  to  Tolstoy's  memory,  are  sure  to  suppose 
and  to  declare  that  he  intends  Nicholas  Ivanovich 
Sarintsev  to  be  taken  as  a  faithful  portrait  of  him- 
self. But  to  understand  Tolstoy  one  has  to  recog- 
nise the  duality  of  his  character,  which  he  never 


30  PREFACE 

concealed  and  often  mentioned;  and  the  hero  of 
The  Light  Thai  Shines  in  Darkness  has  none  of 
this  duahty.  He  represents  only  one  side  of  Tol- 
stoy, and  is  not  at  all  the  sort  of  man,  for  instance, 
who  would  have  written  or  enjoyed  Fruits  of  Cul- 
ture. 

Not  only  are  the  facts  different  to  the  real  ones, 
and  the  character  of  the  hero  much  simpler  than 
Tolstoy's  own,  but  the  problem  at  issue  between 
Sarintsev  and  his  wife  is  not  quite  the  same  as  the 
one  at  issue  between  Tolstoy  and  the  Countess. 
With  that  unerring  artistic  tact  which  Tolstoy 
never  lost,  he  causes  Nicholas  Ivanovich  Sarintsev 
to  make  a  definite  proposal  to  retain  "  fifty  acres 
and  the  kitchen  garden  and  the  flooded  meadow," 
which  would  "  bring  in  about  £50  a  year."  Now 
what  in  real  life  most  frightened  the  Countess, 
was  not  that  she  was  asked  to  accept  poverty,  but 
that  she  was  asked  to  manage  a  household  in  which 
there  should  be  no  limit  to  the  giving  up. 

Tolstoy  held,   as  he  says  in    The  Demands  of 
Love,  that  if  people  begin  giving  up  and  set  any 
limits  thereto,  then  "  life  will  be  hell,  or  will  be- 
come   hell,    if   they    are    not   hypocrites. 
Where  and  how  can  one  stop?     Only  those  will 


PREFACE  31 

find  a  stopping-place  who  are  strangers  to  the  feel- 
ing of  the  reality  of  the  brotherhood  of  man,  or 
who  are  so  accustomed  to  lie  that  they  no  longer 
notice  the  difference  between  truth  and  falsehood. 
The  fact  is,  no  such  stopping-place  can  exist. 
If  you  give  the  beggar  your  last  shillings, 
you  will  be  left  without  bread  to-morrow;  but  to 
refuse  means  to  turn  from  that  for  the  sake  of 
which  one  lives." 

Had  that  point,  and  the  need  of  admitting  to 
one's  cottage  "  the  tramp  with  his  lice  and  his 
typhus,"  and  giving  away  the  children's  last  cup 
of  milk,  been  pressed  home  in  the  play  as  it  was 
in  Tolstoy's  teaching,  some  of  the  readers'  sympa- 
thy would  go  over  to  the  side  of  the  wife  called  on 
to  face  such  conditions  for  herself  and  her  family; 
and  that  is  why  Tolstoy's  artistic  instinct  in- 
duced him  to  introduce  a  definite  proposal  quite 
at  variance  with  the  demands  of  his  own  teach- 
ing. 

And  again,  the  conflict  in  the  play  is  be- 
tween the  husband  on  the  one  side  and  the  wife 
and  family  on  the  other.  There  is  no  mention  of 
a  friend  urging  the  husband  on  in  opposition  to 
the  wife.     Those  who  closely  followed  Tolstoy's 


32  PREFACE 

own  fate  well  know  that  on  this  point  also  the  play 
does  not  describe  his  own  case. 

Not  the  less  on  that  account  does  the  play  most 
touchingly  present  to  us  the  intense  tragedy  of 
Tolstoy's  later  years,  and  the  impossibility  in 
which  he  found  himself  of  acting  so  as  neither  to 
violate  his  own  conscience  nor  to  evoke  anger  in 
the  hearts  of  those  nearest  to  him.  His  religion 
had  brought  "  not  peace,  but  a  sword  " ;  and  it  was 
because  he  believed  in  it  so  firmly,  and  yet  shrank 
from  treating  those  of  his  own  household  as  his 
foes,  that  his  struggle  was  so  intense,  and  that  for 
more  than  thirty  years  he  hesitated  before  he  de- 
cided to  leave  wife  and  home,  the  scenes  endeared 
to  him  by  childhood's  memory,  and  the  spot  where 
he  hoped  to  be  (and  eventually  was)  buried  —  the 
spot  where  his  brother  had  hidden  the  green  stick 
on  which  he  said  was  inscribed  the  secret  of  how 
to  banish  from  the  world  all  sin,  bitterness,  dis- 
cord, and  evil  —  all,  In  short,  that  makes  us  sad  or 
sorry. 

Plays  Tolstoy  found  more  difficult  to  write  than 
stories  or  novels;  for  in  the  novel  or  story  it  is 
possible  to  stop  and  explain,  and  gradually  to  pre- 


PREFACE  33 

pare  an  incident  or  develop  a  character,  whereas 
in  a  play  the  situations  and  clash  of  characters  and 
wills  have  to  be  presented  ripe  and  ready. 
Novel-writing  he  compared  to  painting,  in  which 
many  shades  may  be  employed;  plays  he  compared 
to  sculpture,  where  all  must  be  clear-cut,  definite, 
and  compact. 

He  often  remarked  that  subjects  suitable  for 
novels  are  not  suitable  for  plays  and  vice  versa; 
and  he  expressed  satisfaction  that  he  had  never 
been  obliged  to  witness  the  dramatised  versions  of 
Resurrection  or  of  Jnna  Karenina  which  have 
been  staged.  He  had  nothing  at  all  to  do  with 
those  productions,  and  quite  disapproved  of  them. 

Of  his  plays  in  general  Tolstoy  once  remarked 
to  me:  "When  writing  them  I  never  anticipated 
the  importance  that  has  been  attributed  to  them." 
While  he  fully  recognised,  and  perhaps  at  times 
overrated,  the  value  of  his  didactic  and  propa- 
gandist writings,  he  was  often  inclined  to  under- 
rate the  value  of  the  artistic  work  which  during 
his  later  years  he  sometimes  undertook  more  or 
less  as  a  recreation,  and  on  that  account  was  the 
more  ready  to  treat  lightly.  It  was  mentioned 
by  the  Editor  in  the  first  volume  of  these  Posthu- 


34  PREFACE 

mous  Works  of  Tolstoy's,  the  translations  were 
chosen  by  an  agent  of  the  executors;  and  I  am 
responsible  only  for  the  novel  Hadjo-Murad  which 
will  appear  in  the  third  volume. 

AYLMER  MAUDE. 


THE    LIGHT    THAT    SHINES    IN 
DARKNESS 


DRAMATIS  PERSONiE 

Nicholas  Ivanovicii  Sarintsev. 

Marie  Ivanovna  (Masiia),  his  wife. 

LuBA  (LuBov  Nicolaevna),  1    .    .     ,     „u.^^e 
^  "^    !■  their  daughters. 

MiSSIE,  J 

Stephen,    ]    ,   . 

'     [  their  sons. 
Vania,        J 

MiTROFAN  Dmitrich.     Tutor  to  Vania. 

Alexandra  Ivanovna.  Sister  to  Marie  Ivan- 
ovna. 

Peter  Semenovich  Kokhovtsev.  Her  husband. 

Lisa.     Their  daughter. 

Princess  Cheremshanov. 

Boris.     Her  son. 

ToNiA.     Her  daughter. 

Father  Vasily  (Vasily  Ermilovich).  A  vil- 
lage priest. 

Father  Gerasim. 

Alexis  Mikhailovich  Starkovsky. 

Nurse  and  Footmen  in  Sarintsev's  house. 

Ivan, 

Sebastian,         „ 

„  I      Feasants. 

Ephraim, 

Peter, 

A  Peasant  Woman.     Ivan's  wife.  • 


38  DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

Malashka.     Ivan's  daughter. 

Alexander  Petrovich.     A  tramp. 

A  country  Police  Sergeant. 

Lawyer. 

Yakov.      Carpenter. 

Clerk. 

Sentries. 

General. 

Colonel. 

Aide-de-camp. 

Soldiers. 

Police  Officer. 

Stenographer. 

Chaplain. 

Patients  in  Hospital. 

Sick  Officer. 

Head  Physician. 

House  Surgeon. 

Warders. 

Countess  and  other  Guests  at  Sarlntsev's  dance. 

Pianist. 


a 


ACT  I 

The  stage  represents  a  covered  veranda  in  a  rich 
country-house.  In  front  of  the  veranda  are 
flower  garden,  a  tennis  ground,  and  a  croquet 
lawn.  The  children  with  their  governess  are  play- 
ing croquet.  On  the  veranda  are  seated:  Marie 
IVANOVNA  Sarintsev,  a  liaudsome,  elegant 
woman  of  forty ;  her  sister  Alexandra  Ivanovna 
KOKHOVTSEV,  a  fat,  positive,  and  stupid  zvoman 
of  forty-five:  and  her  husband,  Peter  Semeno- 
VICH  KoKHOVTSEV,  a  fat,  stout,  clumsy  man  of 
slovenly  appearance,  wearing  a  summer  suit  and 
eye-glasses.  They  all  sit  at  a  table  laid  for  break- 
fast with  samovar  and  cofee.  All  are  drinking 
coffee;  Peter  Semenovich  is  smoking. 

Alexandra. 
If  you  were  not  my  sister,  and  Nicholas  Ivano- 
vich  were  not  your  husband,  but  merely  an 
acquaintance,  I  should  find  all  this  novel  and 
charming,  and  should  perhaps  uphold  him.  I 
should  have  found  it  very  nice.  But  when  I  see 
your  husband  playing  the  fool,  simply  playing 
the  fool,  I  cannot  help  telling  you  what  I  think 
of  it.  And  I  shall  tell  him  too,  that  husband 
of  yours.  I  shall  speak  straight  out  to  dear 
Nicholas.     I  am  not  afraid  of  anybody. 

39 


40  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Marie. 

I  do  not  mind  in  the  least:  I  see  it  myself.  But 
I  really  do  not  think  it  is  as  important  as  all  that. 

Alexandra. 

You  may  not  think  so;  but  I  assure  you,  if 
you  let  it  go  on,  you  will  all  be  beggared.  That 
is  what  will  come  of  this  sort  of  thing. 

Peter. 
Beggared,  indeed  !     With  their  fortune  ! 

Alexandra. 

Yes,  beggared.  Don't  interrupt  me.  Of 
course,  you  always  think  that  anything  a  man  does 
is  right. 

Peter. 

I  don't  know.     I  only  say.     .     .     . 

Alexandra. 

You  never  know  what  you  are  talking  about, 
and  when  once  you  men  begin  your  nonsense, 
there  is  no  knowing  where  it  will  end.  All  I  say 
is,  that  if  I  were  in  your  place,  I  should  not  allow 
it.  I  should  have  put  a  stop  to  all  this.  I  never 
heard  of  such  a  thing.  The  husband,  the  head 
of  the  family,  does  nothing,  neglects  his  affairs, 
gives  everything  away,   and  plays   the  bountiful 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  41 

right  and  left.  I  know  how  It  will  end.  I  know 
all  about  it. 

Peter. 

{to  Marie  Ivanovna.)  Do  explain  to  me, 
Marie,  what  this  new  fad  of  his  is.  There  are 
Liberals,  County  Councils,  the  Constitution 
Schools,  reading-rooms  and  all  the  rest  of  it  —  I 
understand  all  that.  Then  there  are  Socialists, 
strikes,  an  eight-hour  day  —  I  understand  that  too. 
But  what  is  all  this?     Do  explain. 

Marie. 
He  told  you  all  about  it  yesterday. 

Peter. 

I  own  that  I  could  not  understand.  The  Gos- 
pel, the  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  that  churches  are 
unnecessary.  But  where  are  we  to  pray,  and  all 
that? 

Marie. 

That  is  the  worst  of  it.  He  would  destroy 
everything  and  put  nothing  in  its  place. 

Peter. 

How  did  it  begin? 

Marie. 

It  began  last  year,  when  his  sister  died.  He 
became  very  gloomy,  perpetually  spoke  of  death, 


42  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

and  then   fell   ill,   as  you   know.     And   after  his 
typhoid  fever  he  changed  entirely. 

Alexandra. 
Still  he  came  to  see  us  in  Moscow  in  the  spring, 
and  he  was  very  amiable  and  played  cards.     He 
was  very  nice  and  quite  normal. 

Marie. 
Yes,  but  he  was  not  the  same. 

Peter. 
In  what  way? 

Marie. 
He  was  perfectly  indifferent  to  his  family,  and 
the  New  Testament  had  become  an  obsession. 
He  read  it  all  day;  at  night  he  got  up  to  read 
it  instead  of  sleeping,  making  notes  and  copying 
out  passages.  Then  he  began  to  visit  bishops  and 
aged  monks,  to  discuss  religion. 

Alexandra. 

Did  he  go  to  confession  and  take  the  sacra- 
ment? 

Marie. 

Before  that  he  had  not  done  so  since  his  mar- 
riage, that  is  for  twenty-five  years.  But  at  the 
time  I  am  speaking  of  he  confessed  and  took  com- 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  43 

munion  at  the  monastery,  and  immediately  after- 
ward decided  it  was  unnecessary  to  confess,  or 
even  to  go  to  church  at  all. 

Alexandra. 

You  see  how  inconsistent  he  is.  A  month  ago 
he  went  to  church  and  kept  all  the  fasts;  now  sud- 
denly he  thinks  all  that  is  useless. 

Marie. 

Well,  talk  to  him  yourself. 

Alexandra. 
I  will;  indeed  I  will. 

Peter. 

All  that  does  not  matter  much. 

Alexandra. 

It  seems  to  you  that  it  does  not  matter,  because 
men  have  no  religion. 

Peter. 

Do  let  me  speak.  I  say  that  that  is  not  the 
point.  If  he  denies  the  Church,  where  does  the 
New  Testament  come  in? 

Marie. 

He  says  we  are  to  live  in  accordance  with  the 
Sermon  on  the  Mount,  and  give  everything  away. 


44  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Peter. 

How  are  we  to  live  ourselves  if  we  give  every- 
thing away? 

Alexandra. 

And  where  does  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount 
order  us  to  shake  hands  with  our  footmen?  It 
says  "  blessed  are  the  meek,"  but  there  is  not  a 
word  about  shaking  hands. 

Marie. 

Of  course  he  is  fanatical  in  this,  as  he  always 
is  when  he  takes  up  anything.  At  one  time  it 
was  music,  then  schools.  .  .  .  But  that  does 
not  make  it  any  easier  for  me. 

Peter. 
Why  has  he  gone  to  town? 

Marie. 

He  did  not  tell  me,  but  I  know  he  has  gone 
to  attend  the  hearing  of  the  timber-stealing  case. 
The  peasants  cut  down  some  of  our  forest. 

Peter. 

Those  big  fir-trees  ? 

Marie. 
Yes.     They  were  condemned  to  pay  for  them, 
and  sentenced  to  imprisonment,  and  their  appeal 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  45 

is  to  be  heard  to-day.      I  am  sure  that  is  why  he 
went. 

Alexandra. 

He  will  forgive  them,  and  to-morrow  they  will 
come  and  chop  down  all  the  trees  in  his  park. 

Marie. 

They  seem  to  be  beginning  already.  All  the 
apple  trees  are  broken,  and  the  fields  trampled. 
He  forgives  it  all. 

Peter. 
How  extraordinary! 

Alexandra. 
That  is  exactly  why  I  say  that  you  must  inter- 
fere.     If  it  continues  much   longer  —  everything 
will  go.      I  think  it  is  your  duty  as  a  mother  to 
take  some  steps. 

Marie. 
What  can  I  do? 

Alexandra. 

What  can  you  do,  indeed?  Put  a  stop  to  it, 
make  him  understand  that  it  is  impossible.  You 
have  children.     What  an  example  to  set  them! 

Marie. 
It  is  hard,  but  I  try  to  bear  it,  and  to  hope  that 


46  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

this  will  pass  as  all  his  other  infatuations  have 
done. 

Alexandra. 
Yes;  but  God  helps  those  who  help  themselves. 
You  must  make  him  feel  that  he  is  not  alone,  and 
that  he  is  not  living  in  the  proper  way. 

Marie. 
The  worst  of  it  all  is  that  he  takes  no  interest 
in  the  children.  I  have  to  settle  everything  by 
myself.  On  the  one  hand  I  have  a  baby,  and  on 
the  other,  grown-up  children  —  a  girl  and  a  boy 
—  who  both  need  attention  and  guidance,  and  I  am 
alone.  He  used  to  be  such  a  careful  and  tender 
father.  Now  he  does  not  care  about  anything. 
Last  night  I  told  him  Vania  was  lazy  and  had 
failed  again  in  his  examinations,  and  he  said  it 
would  be  much  better  for  him  to  leave  school 
altogether. 

Peter. 

Where  would  he  send  him? 

Marie. 
Nowhere.     That    is    the    horrible    part    of    it. 
Everything  is  wrong,  but  he  does  not  say  what  we 
are  to  do. 

Peter. 
How  strange! 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  47 

Alexandra. 

Not  at  all  strange.  It  is  just  the  usual  way  you 
men  have  of  finding  fault  with  everything  and  do- 
ing  nothing   yourselves. 

Marie. 

Stephen  has  finished  his  studies  and  must  decide 
what  he  is  going  to  do,  but  his  father  will  not  say 
anything  to  him  about  it.  He  wanted  to  enter 
the  Civil  Service  —  his  father  said  it  v/as  useless; 
he  wanted  to  enter  the  Horse  Guards  —  Nicholas 
Ivanovich  disapproved.  The  boy  asked  what  he 
was  to  do,  and  his  father  asked  why  he  did  not 
go  and  plough :  that  would  be  far  better  than  the 
Civil  Service.  What  is  he  to  do?  He  comes  to 
me  for  advice,  and  I  have  to  decide.  But  the 
means  of  carrying  out  any  plan  are  In  his  father's 
hands. 

Alexandra. 

You  ought  to  tell  Nicholas  so  plainly. 

Marie. 
Yes;  I  must  talk  to  him. 

Alexandra. 

Tell  him  plainly  that  you  cannot  stand  It:  that 
you  do  your  duty  and  that  he  must  do  his. 
Otherwise,  he  had  better  make  the  property  over 
to  you. 


48  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Marie. 
Oh  !  that  Is  so  unpleasant. 

Alexandra. 
I  will  tell  him,  If  you  like.      I  will  tell  him  so 
straight  out. 

(A  young  priest  enters,  somewhat 
shy  and  nervous.  He  carries  a  book 
and  shakes  hands  with  all  present.) 

Father  Vastly. 
I  have  come  to  see  Nicholas  Ivanovlch.     I've 
—  I've  brought  back  a  book. 

Marie. 
He  has  gone  to  town,  but  he  will  soon  return. 

Alexandra. 

What  book  did  he  lend  you? 

Father  Vasily. 
It    Is    Renan  —  yes  —  a    book  —  the    Life    of 
Jesus. 

Peter. 
Oh !  what  a  book  for  you  to  read. 

Alexandra. 

{contemptuously.)  Did  Nicholas  Ivanovlch  give 
you  that  to  read?  Well,  do  you  agree  with 
Nicholas  Ivanovlch,  and  with  Monsieur  Renan? 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  49 

Father  Vastly. 
{excited,    li^^ht'iug    a    cigarette.)      Yes,    Nicholas 
Ivanovich  gave  it  to  me  to  read.      Of  course  I  do 
not  agree  with  it.      If  I  did  I  should  not  be,  so  to 
speak,  a  servant  of  the  Church. 

Alexandra. 
And  since  you  are,  so  to  speak,  a  true  servant 
of  the  Church,  why  don't  you  convert  Nicholas 
Ivanovich? 

Father  Vastly. 
Everybody,  if  I  may  say  so,  has  his  own  views 
on  these  subjects.  And  Nicholas  Ivanovich,  if  I 
may  say  so,  says  much  that  is  true.  But  on  the 
main  point  he  is  in  error  concerning  er  —  er  —  er 
—  the  Church. 

Alexandra. 
And  what  are   the   true   things   that   Nicholas 
Ivanovich  says?     Is  it  true  that  the  Sermon  on 
the  Mount  bids  us  give  away  our  possessions  to 
strangers,  and  let  our  family  be  beggars? 

Father  Vastly. 
The  family  is,  so  to  speak,  held  sacred  in  the 
Church,  and  the  fathers  of  the  Church  have  be- 
stowed their  blessing  on  the  family,  haven't  they? 
But  the  highest  perfection  requires  —  well,  yes, 
requires  renunciation  of  earthly  goods. 


so  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Alexandra. 
That  Is  all  very  well  for  saints,  but  ordinary 
mortals  ought  simply  to  act  hke  good  Christians. 

Father  Vasily. 
Nobody  can  tell  what  he  was  sent  to  earth  for. 

Alexandra. 
You  are  married,  I  suppose? 

Father  Vasily. 
Certainly. 

Alexandra. 
And  have  you  got  any  children? 

Father  Vasily. 
Yes,  two. 

Alexandra. 
Then  why  don't  you  renounce  earthly  joys  in- 
stead of  smoking  cigarettes? 

Father  Vasily. 
It  is,  I  may  say,  owing  to  my  weakness  and  my 
unworthiness  that  I  do  not. 

Alexandra. 

It  seems  to  me  that  instead  of  bringing  Nicholas 
Ivanovich  to  his  senses,  you  are  upholding  him. 
I  tell  you  frankly  it  is  not  right. 

(Enter  Nurse.) 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  51 

Nurse. 
Don't  you  hear  baby  crying?     Please  come  to 
him. 

Marie. 

I'm  coming  —  I'm  coming.  (Exit.) 

Alexandra. 
I  am  so  sorry  for  my  sister.  I  see  how  she 
suffers.  It  is  no  easy  matter  to  manage  a  house- 
hold—  seven  children,  and  one  of  them  a  baby  at 
the  breast.  And  he  with  his  new-fangled  theories 
—  I  really  think  he  is  not  quite  right  here  {points 
to  her  head.)  Now  tell  me  truly,  what  is  this 
new  religion  you  have  discovered? 

Father  Vastly. 
I  don't  quite  understand,  If  I  may  say  so. 

Alexandra. 
Please  do  not  pretend  you  do  not  understand. 
You  know  perfectly  well  what  I  am  asking. 

Father  Vasily. 
But,  pardon  me  — 

Alexandra. 

I  ask  you  what  this  creed  is,  according  to  which 
you  must  shake  hands  with  all  peasants,  allow 
them  to  cut  down  your  forest,  give  them  money 
for  drink,  and  forsake  your  own  family. 


52  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Father  Vastly. 
I  do  not  know. 

Alexandra. 
He  says  it  is  the  Christian  teaching.     You  are  a 
priest  of  the  Orthodox  Church.     Therefore,  you 
ought   to  know   and  ought  to   say  whether  the 
Christian  teaching  encourages  stealing. 

Father  Vastly. 
But  I  — 

Alexandra. 
Otherwise,  why  do  you  call  yourself  a  priest, 
and  wear  long  hair  and  a  cassock? 

Father  Vastly. 
But  we  are  never  asked  such  things. 

Alexandra. 
Really?     Well  I  ask  you?     Yesterday  Nicholas 
Ivanovich  said  the  Gospel  command  is:  "  Give  to 
every  man  that  asks."     How  is  that  to  be  inter- 
preted? 

Father  Vastly. 
I  think  In  the  simplest  sense. 

Alexandra. 
I  do  not  think  so  at  all.     I  think  it  means,  as 
we  were  always  taught,  that  everybody  has  what 
God  has  given  him. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  53 

Father  Vasily. 

Of  course,  but  still  — 

Alexandra. 

It  Is  quite  evident  that  you  are  on  his  side.  I 
was  told  you  were;  and  It  is  very  wrong  of  you,  I 
tell  you  quite  frankly.  If  It  were  some  school- 
mistress, or  some  boy  who  accepted  his  every  word 
—  but  you,  in  your  position,  ought  to  understand 
what  your  responsibilities  are. 

Father  Vastly. 
I  try  to. 

Alexandra. 
How  can  he  be  called  religious  when  he  does 
not  go  to  church,  and  does  not  recognise  the  sacra- 
ments? And  you,  Instead  of  bringing  him  to 
reason,  read  Renan  with  him,  and  Interpret  the 
Gospel  as  you  like. 

Father  Vastly. 
(agitated.)      I  cannot  answer.     I  am  —  I  am  — 
amazed,  and  would  rather  not  say  anything. 

Alexandra. 
Oh !  If  I  were  a  bishop  I  would  teach  you  to  read 
Renan  and  smoke  cigarettes. 

Peter. 
Stop,   for  Heaven's  sake!     By  what  right — ? 


54  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Alexandra. 
Please   don't   lecture   me.     I   am    sure    Father 
Vasily  does  not  mind.     Well,  I  have  said  all  I  had 
to  say.      It  would  be  much  worse  if  I  had  any  ill- 
feeling.     Is  not  that  so? 

Father  Vasily. 
Pardon  me  if  I  have  expressed  myself  badly  — 
pardon  me.      {Awkward  silence.) 

(Enter  LuBA  and  LiSA.) 
(LUBA,  the  daughter  of  Marie 
IVANOVNA,  is  a  pretty,  energetic  girl 
of  twenty.  Lisa,  the  daughter  of 
Alexandra  Ivanovna,  is  older. 
Both  wear  sliawls  on  their  heads,  and 
carry  baskets  —  they  are  going  mush- 
rooming in  the  woods.  They  greet 
Alexandra  Ivanovna,  Peter  Se- 
MENOVICH,  and  the  priest.) 

Luba. 

Where  is  mother? 

Alexandra. 
She  has  just  gone  to  nurse  the  baby. 

Peter. 

Mind  you  bring  back  plenty  of  mushrooms. 
A  village  girl  brought  some  beauties  this  morning. 
I  would  go  with  you,  but  it  is  so  hot. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  55 

Lisa. 
Do  come,  father. 

Alexandra. 

Yes,  do  go.     You  are  getting  too  fat. 

Peter. 

Very  well.     But  I  must  get  some  cigarettes. 

{Exit.) 

Alexandra. 
Where  are  all  the  other  young  people? 

Luba. 
Stephen  has  gone  to  the  station  on  his  bicycle; 
Metrofan  Alexandrovich  has  gone  to  town  with 
father;  the   little   ones   are   playing   croquet;   and 
Vania  is  romping  with  the  dogs  in  the  porch. 

Alexandra. 
Has  Stephen  come  to  any  decision? 

LuBA. 
Yes,  he  is  going  to  enlist  as  a  volunteer.      He 
was  horribly  rude  to  father  yesterday. 

Alexandra. 
Well,   he  has   a   good   deal  to  bear.     Even   a 
worm  will  turn.      The  boy  wants  to  begin  life,  and 
he  is  told  to  go  and  plough. 


5  6  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

LUBA. 

Father  did  not  say  that.     He  said     . 
Alexandra. 

It  makes  no  difference.  The  boy  must  make  a 
start,  and  whatever  he  proposes  is  found  fault 
with.     Oh,  there  he  is ! 

{Enter  Stephen  on  bicycle.) 

Alexandra. 

Talk  of  an  angel  and  you  hear  his  wings.  We 
were  just  speaking  of  you.  Luba  says  that  you 
did  not  speak  nicely  to  your  father  yesterday. 

Stephen. 

Not  at  all.  Nothing  particular  happened.  He 
expressed  his  opinion,  and  I  expressed  mine.  It 
is  not  my  fault  if  our  views  do  not  agree.  Luba 
understands  nothing,  and  is  always  ready  to  criti- 
cise. 

Alexandra. 

What  did  you  decide? 

Stephen. 

I  don't  know  what  father  decided.  I'm  afraid 
he  does  not  know  himself;  but  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  to  join  the  Horse  Guards  as  a  volunteer. 
It  is  only  in  our  house  that  difficulties  are  raised 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  57 

about  everything.  It  is  quite  simple.  I  have 
finished  my  studies;  I  have  got  to  do  my  military 
service.  It  would  be  unpleasant  to  serve  in  the 
army  with  coarse,  drunken  officers,  so  I  shall  join 
the  Guards,  where  I  have  friends. 

Alexandra. 
Why  did  your  father  object? 

Stephen. 

Father?  Oh,  what's  the  good  of  talking  about 
him.  He  is  infatuated  with  his  idee  fixe,  and  sees 
only  what  he  wants  to  see.  He  says  that  the 
military  is  the  most  dastardly  of  all  the  services, 
therefore  I  ought  not  to  serve,  and  therefore  he 
gives  me  no  money. 

Lisa. 

* 

No,  Stephen,  that  was  not  what  he  said.  I  was 
there.  He  said  that  if  it  is  impossible  to  get  out 
of  it,  one  should  at  least  wait  till  one  is  called  as 
a  recruit,  but  that  to  volunteer  is  to  choose  that 
service  oneself. 

Stephen. 

It  is  I,  not  he,  who  will  serve.  He  was  an 
officer  himself. 

Lisa. 
He   did   not   say   that  he   would   not   give   you 


58  'the  light  that 

money,    but   that   he    could   not   participate    in    a 
matter  that  was  contrary  to  all  his  principles. 

Stephen. 

Principles  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I've  got 
to  serve,  and  there's  an  end  of  it. 

Lisa. 
I  only  said  what  I  heard. 

Stephen. 

I  know.  You  agree  with  father  in  everything. 
Auntie,  did  you  know  that?  Lisa  Is  always  on 
father's  side. 

Lisa. 

When  it  is  a  question  of  justice. 

*- 

Alexandra. 

Oh,  I  know  Lisa  is  always  on  the  side  of  non- 
sense. She  has  a  knack  of  finding  it.  She  scents 
it  from  afar. 

(Etiter  VaniA.  He  runs  on  to 
the  veranda  in  a  red  blouse,  accom- 
panied by  the  dogs,  with  a  telegram 
in  his  hand.) 

Vania. 
{to  LuBA.)      Guess  who  is  coming  1 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  59 

LUBA. 

Why  should  I  guess?  Give  me  the  telegram. 
{Stretches  out  her  hand  for  it.  Vania  holds  it 
out  of  her  reach.) 

Vania. 

I  won't  give  it  to  you,  and  I  won't  tell  you.  It 
is  some  one  who  will  make  you  blush. 

LuBA. 
Nonsense!     Who  is  it  from? 

Vania. 

Aha!  You  are  blushing,  you  are  I  Aunt 
Aline,  isn't  It  true  that  she's  blushing? 

LuBA. 
What  nonsense!     Aunt  Aline,  who  is  It  from? 

Alexandra. 
The  Cheremshanovs. 

LUBA. 

Oh  I 

Vania. 
*'OhI"  indeed.     Why  are  you  blushing? 

LUBA. 

Auntie,  show  me  the  telegram.  (Reads.) 
"Arrive  by  mail  train;   all   three. —  Cheremsha- 


6o  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

novs."     That    means    the    princess,    Boris,    and 
Tonia.    Well,  I  am  very  glad. 

Vania. 

Of  course  you  are  very  glad.  Stephen,  see 
how  she's  blushing. 

Stephen. 

Oh,  drop  it.  You  keep  on  saying  the  same 
thing  over  and  over  again. 

Vania. 

You  say  that  because  you're  a  bit  smitten  by 
Tonia  yourself.  You'll  have  to  draw  lots,  be- 
cause sister  and  brother  may  not  marry  brother 
and  sister. 

Stephen. 

Don't  talk  such  rubbish.  You'd  better  be 
careful.     I've  warned  you  several  times. 

Lisa. 

If  they  come  by  the  mail  train  they  ought  to 
be  here  directly. 

LUBA. 

That's  true.     Then  we  had  better  not  go  out. 
{Enter  Peter  Semenovich  with 
cigarettes.) 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  6i 

LUBA. 

Uncle  Peter,  we  are  not  going. 

Peter. 

Why? 

LuBA. 

The  Cheremshanovs  will  be  here  directly.  We 
had  better  have  one  set  at  tennis  before  they  ar- 
rive.    Stephen,  will  you  play? 

Stephen. 
All  right. 

LUBA. 

Vania  and  I  against  you  and  Lisa.  Agreed? 
Well,  then,  I'll  go  and  get  the  balls  and  call  the 
village  children.      (Exit.) 

Peter. 
So  much  for  my  walk. 

Father  Vasily. 
(rising  to  go.)      Good-bye. 

Alexandra. 

Oh,  wait  a  little,  Father  Vasily.  I  want  to 
talk  to  you,  and  Nicholas  Ivanovich  will  soon  be 
here. 


62  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Father  Vasily. 

(sits   down    and   lights   another   cigarette.)      He 
may  be  some  time  yet. 

Alexandra. 
A  carriage  has  just  driven  up;   I  expect  it  is 
he. 

Peter. 
Which    Princess    Cherem^hanov    is    it?     Is    it 
possible  that  her  maiden  name  was  Gohtsine? 

Alexandra. 

Yes,  yes,  that  nice  Princess  Cheremshanov  who 
lived  in  Rome  with  her  aunt. 

Peter. 
I  shall  be  glad  to  see  her.  •   I  have  not  seen  her 
since   the   time   when   we  used   to   sing   duets   to- 
gether in  Rome.     She  sang  very  well.     She  has 
two  children,  I  believe. 

Alexandra. 
Yes,  and  they  are  both  coming  with  her. 

Peter. 
I  did  not  know  they  were  so  intimate  with  the 
Sarintsevs. 

Alexandra. 
They  are  not  intimate;  but  they  were  abroad 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  .  63 

together  last  year,  and  I  believe  that  the  princess 
has  designs  on  Luba  for  her  son.  She  knows  a 
thing  or  two. 

Peter. 
The  Cheremshanovs  were  rich  themselves. 

Alexandra. 

They  were.  The  prince  is  still  alive,  but  he 
has  dissipated  his  fortune,  and  has  taken  to  drink 
She  petitioned  the  Tsar,  saved  a  few  crumbs,  and 
left  him.  But  she  brought  up  her  children  splen- 
didly. The  daughter  is  an  excellent  musician, 
and  the  son  went  through  the  university,  and  is 
very  nice.  Still  I  do  not  think  Masha  is  par- 
ticularly pleased.  This  is  not  a  time  for  guests. 
Ah,  there  is  Nicholas. 

{Enter  NICHOLAS  IVANOVICH.) 

Nicholas. 

Good  morning.  Aline.  Hallo !  Peter  Seme- 
nov.  {To  the  priest.)  How  do  you  do,  Vasily 
Ermilovich.      {He  shakes  hands.) 

Alexandra. 

There  is  some  coffee  here.  Shall  I  pour  it  out? 
It  is  not  very  hot,  but  it  can  be  warmed  up.  {She 
rings.) 


64  •       THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Nicholas. 
No,     thank     you.     I     have     had     breakfast. 
Where  is  Masha? 

Alexandra. 
She  is  nursing  the  baby. 

Nicholas. 
Is  she  well? 

Alexandra. 

Pretty  well.  Have  you  done  all  your  busi- 
ness? 

Nicholas. 

Yes.  I  think  I  will  have  some  tea  or  some 
coffee  if  there  is  any.  {To  the  priest.)  Have 
you  brought  the  book?  Have  you  read  it?  I 
have  been  thinking  about  you  all  the  way. 

{Enter   footman;   hows.      NICHO- 
LAS shakes  hands  with  him.) 

Alexandra. 

{shrugging  her  shoulders,  and  exchanging  glances 
zvith  her  husband.)  Heat  up  the  samovar, 
please. 

Nicholas. 

Never  mind,  Aline.  I  do  not  want  anything, 
and  if  I  do,  I  can  drink  it  as  it  is. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  65 

MiSSIE. 
{seeing  her  father,  runs  from  the  croquet  ground, 
and  clasps  her  arms  around  his  neck.)      Father, 
come  along. 

Nicholas. 

{fondling     her.)      Directly,     directly.     Let  r-.if; 

have  something  to  drink.      Go  and  play.      I  will 

come  soon.  {Sits  down  at  the  table,  drinks  tea, 
and  eats.) 

Alexandra. 
Were  they  found  guilty? 

Nicholas. 
Yes.     They  pleaded  guilty.      {To  the  priest.) 
I  imagine  Renan  did  not  convince  you. 

Alexandra. 

But  you  disagreed  with  the  verdict? 

Nicholas. 

{annoyed.)  Of  course  I  did.  {To  priest.^ 
The  main  question  for  you  lies,  not  in  the  divinity 
of  Christ,  not  in  the  history  of  Christianity,  but  in 
the  Church 

Alexandra. 

How  was  that?  They  confessed  themselves: 
you  gave  them  the  lie.  They  were  not  stealing, 
only  taking     . 


66  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Nicholas. 

{begins  speaking  to  the  priest,  then  turning  decid- 
edly to  Alexandra  Ivanovna.)  My  dear 
Aline,  do  not  worry  me  with  innuendos  and  pin- 
pricks. 

Alexandra. 
I  am  not  doing  anything  of  the  sort. 

Nicholas. 
If    you    really    want    to    know    why    I    cannot 
prosecute    the    peasants    for    cutting    down    some 
trees  which  they  badly  needed. 

Alexandra. 
I  dare  say  they  need  this  samovar  also. 

Nicholas. 

Well,  if  you  want  me  to  tell  you  why  I  cannot 
allow  men  to  be  imprisoned  for  felling  ten  trees 
in  a  wood  that  is  considered  mine. 

Alexandra. 
Considered  so  by  every  one. 

Peter. 

There  you  are,  arguing  again.  I  shall  go  out 
with  the  dogs.      {He  leaves  the  veranda.) 

Nicholas. 
Even  supposing  I  were  to  consider  that  wood 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  67 

mine  —  though  that  is  impossible  —  we  have 
2,250  acres  of  forest,  with  approximately  200 
trees  on  each  —  I  think  that  makes  about  450,000 
in  all.  They  felled  10  —  that  is  ^^^  part. 
Well,  is  it  worth  while,  is  it  possible,  to  drag  a 
man  away  from  his  family  and  put  him  in  prison 
for  such  a  thing? 

Stephen. 
Well,  if  you  don't  prosecute  for  this  ^-^-^part, 
the  rest  of  the  45,000  will  also  soon  be  felled. 

Nicholas. 
I  only  gave  that  answer  in  reply  to  your  aunt. 
In  reality,  I  have  no  right  to  this  forest.  The 
land  belongs  to  all  —  that  is,  to  no  individual  — 
and  we  personally  have  never  done  a  stroke  of 
work  on  it. 

Stephen. 
Oh,  no!     You  saved  up,  and  you  looked  after 
the  land. 

Nicholas. 
How  did  I  get  enough  to  save  up,  and  when 
did    I    ever   look   after    the    forest   myself?      But 
there !  you  can't  prove  such  things  to  a  man  who 
feels   no   shame   in   injuring   others. 

Stephen. 
No  one  is  injuring  others. 


68  THE  LIGHT  THAT  . 

Nicholas. 

If  he  is  not  ashamed  of  being  idle  —  of  living 
on  the  labour  of  others  —  it  cannot  be  proved, 
and  all  the  political  economy  you  learnt  at  the 
university  only  serves  to  justify  your  position. 

Stephen. 
On  the  contrary,  science  destroys  all  prejudices. 

Nicholas. 

Well,  that  does  not  matter.  What  does  matter 
to  me  is  the  fact  that  if  I  were  in  Ephim's  place, 
I  should  do  just  what  he  did;  and  having  done  it 
I  should  be  in  despair  if  I  were  imprisoned,  and 
therefore,  since  I  would  do  unto  others  as  I  would 
be  done  by^  I  cannot  prosecute  him,  and  must  do 
my  best  to  get  him  off. 

Peter. 

But,   in   that   case,    it   is  not  possible  to 
own  anything. 

J-  Alexandra. 

"S        Then  it  is  much  more  profitable  to  steal 


^   than  to  work. 

Stephen. 


You  never  answer  one's  arguments.  I 
say  that  he  who  economises  has  a  right  to 
use  his  savings. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  69 

Nicholas. 
{smiling.)      I    do    not    know    which    of    you    to 
answer,      {to  Peter.)      It  is  not  possible  to  own 
anything. 

Alexandra. 
If  that  Is  so,  one  cannot  have  clothes  or  a  crust 
of  bread.     One  must  give  up  everything,  and  life 
becomes  impossible. 

Nicholas. 
It  is  impossible  to  live  as  we  live. 

Stephen. 
Then  we  must  die.     Therefore  that  teaching  is 
no  good  for  life. 

Nicholas. 
On  the  contrary,  it  is  given  only  for  life.  Yes, 
we  must  relinquish  everything  —  not  only  a  for- 
est by  which  we  profit,  though  we  have  never 
seen  it,  but  we  should  give  up  our  clothes  and  our 
bread  even. 

Alexandra. 

And  the  children's  bread  also? 

Nicholas. 

Yes,  the  children's  also  —  and  not  bread  only 
—  we  must  give  up  ourselves.  That  is  the  whole 
teaching  of  Christ.  We  must  use  all  our  efforts 
to  give  up  ourselves. 


70  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Stephen. 
To  die,  therefore? 

Nicholas. 

Yes,  if  you  die  for  others  it  would  be  good 
both  for  yourself  and  for  others;  but  the  fact  re- 
mains that  man  is  not  simply  a  spirit,  but  a  spirit 
in  the  flesh;  and  the  flesh  impels  us  to  live  for 
self,  while  the  enlightened  spirit  urges  us  to  live 
for  God,  for  others;  and  the  result  of  this  con- 
flict makes  us  take  a  middle  course.  The  nearer 
we  attain  to  God  the  better.  Therefore  the  more 
we  try  to  live  for  God  the  better.  The  flesh  will 
make  sufficient  efforts  on  Its  own  account. 

Stephen. 

Why  take  a  middle  course?  If  such  a  life  Is 
best,  then  one  should  give  up  everything  and  die. 

Nicholas. 
It  would  be  splendid.     Try  to  do  it,  and  you 
will  find  it  good  for  you  as  well  as  for  others. 

Alexandra. 

No,  all  this  Is  neither  clear  nor  simple.  It  Is 
dragged  In  by  the  hair. 

Nicholas. 
What  am  I  to  do?     I  cannot  make  you  under- 
stand.    Enough  of  thlsl 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  71 

Stephen. 
Enough,      indeed !     I      do      not     understand. 
{Exit.) 

Nicholas. 

{to  the  priest.)  Well,  what  did  you  think  of  the 
book? 

Father  Vasily. 

{agitated.)  I  hardly  know  what  to  say.  The 
historical  side  Is  sufficiently  studied,  but  it  is  hardly 
convincingly  or  satisfactorily  proved  —  perhaps 
because  the  data  are  Insufficient.  You  cannot 
prove  the  divinity  or  non-divinity  of  Christ  his- 
torically. There  is  only  one  unanswerable 
proof.     .     . 

{During  the  conversation  all,  one 
after  the  other,  leave  the  room  • — 
■first  the  ladies,  then  Stephen,  and 
finally  Peter  Semenovich,  leaving 
the  priest  and  Nicholas  alone.) 

Nicholas. 
You  mean  the  Church? 

Father  Vasily. 
Yes,   of  course,   the  Church;  the  testimony  of 
men  —  well,  of  truly  holy  men,  shall  we  say? 

Nicholas. 
It  would  certainly  be  excellent  if  such  an  infal- 
lible authority  existed  which  we  could  trust,  and 


72  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

it  is  desirable  that  it  should  exist.     But  its   de- 
sirability is  no  proof  that  it  does  exist. 

Father  Vastly. 

I  contend  that  it  does  prove  it.  God  could  not, 
as  It  were,  let  His  law  be  distorted,  be  badly  in- 
terpreted; and  He  had  to  institute  a  —  well  —  a 
custodian  of  His  truths.  He  had  to,  hadn't  He, 
to  prevent  the  distortion  of  these  truths? 

Nicholas. 

Very  well;  but  you  set  out  to  prove  the  truths 
themselves,  and  now  you  are  proving  the  truth  of 
the  custodians. 

Father  Vastly. 

Well,  in  regard  to  that,  we  must,  so  to  speak, 
believe. 

Ntcholas. 

Believe?  We  cannot  live  without  belief.  We 
must  believe,  but  not  what  others  tell  us;  only 
what  we  are  led  to  by  the  course  of  our  own 
thoughts,  our  own  reason  .  .  .  the  belief  in 
God,  in  the  true  life  everlasting. 

Father  Vastly. 

Reason  may  deceive  you  —  each  man  has  his 
own  — 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  73 

Nicholas. 
(warmly.)      That    Is    horrible    blasphemy!      God 
has   given   us   one   holy  instrument   by   which   to 
know  the  truth  —  one  that  can  unite  us  all,   and 
we  distrust  It! 

Father  Vasily. 

But  how  can  we  trust  it  when  there  is  so  much 
difference  of  opinion  —  isn't  there? 

Nicholas. 
Where  is  there  any  difference  of  opinion  as  to 
two  and  two  making  four;  as  to  our  not  doing  to 
others  what  we  do  not  wish  to  be  done  to  our- 
selves; as  to  there  being  a  cause  for  everything: 
and  such  truths  as  these?  We  all  recognise  these 
truths  because  they  are  in  accordance  with  our 
reason.  As  to  such  questions  as  what  God  re- 
vealed to  Moses  on  Mount  Sinai,  whether  or  not 
Buddha  flew  away  on  a  sunbeam,  or  whether  Mo- 
hammed and  Christ  flew  up  to  heaven  —  and 
things  of  that  sort  —  we  all  disagree. 

Father  Vasily. 

No,  we  do  not  all  disagree.     All  who  have  the 
truth  are  united  in  one  faith  in  the  God  Christ. 

Nicholas. 
You  are  not  united  then  because  you  all  differ, 


74  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

so  why  should  I  believe  you  rather  than  a  Bud- 
dhist lama?  Simply  because  1  happened  to  be 
born  in  your  faith? 

{Sounds  of  dispute  from  the  ten- 
nis-court. "  Out."  ''  No,  it  was 
not."      "  I  saw  it." 

During  the  conversation  the  FoOT- 
MAN  rearranges  the  table,  bringing  in 
fresh  tea  and  coffee.) 

Nicholas. 

{continuing.)  You  say  the  Church  gives  union. 
But,  on  the  contrary,  the  worst  differences  were 
always  caused  by  the  Church.  "  How  often 
would  I  have  gathered  Thy  children  together, 
even  as  a  hen  gathereth  her  chickens  under  her 
wings." 

Father  Vastly. 
It  was  so  before  Christ.      Christ  united  all. 

Nicholas. 

Christ  united  us  all,  but  we  became  disunited 
because  we  understood  Him  wrongly.  He  de- 
stroyed all  Churches. 

Father  Vasily. 
Then  what  does  "  tell  the  Church  "  mean? 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  75 

Nicholas. 

It  is  not  a  question  of  words,  nor  do  these 
words  apply  to  the  Church.  The  whole  thing  is 
the  spirit  of  the  teaching.  Christ's  teaching  is 
universal,  and  contains  all  beliefs,  and  does  not 
contain  anything  that  is  exclusive  —  neither  the 
resurrection,  nor  the  divinity  of  Christ,  nor  the 
sacraments  —  indeed,  nothing  that  can  disunite. 

Father  Vastly. 

Well,  that  is  your  interpretation  of  the  Chris- 
tian teaching;  but  the  Christian  teaching  is  en- 
tirely founded  on  the  divinity  of  Christ  and  His 
resurrection. 

Nicholas. 
That  is  why  Churches  are  so  horrible.  They 
disunite  by  declaring  that  they  possess  the  full, 
certain,  and  infallible  truth  — "  filling  us  with  the 
Holy  Ghost."  It  began  with  the  first  meeting  of 
the  apostles.  From  that  moment  they  began  to 
affirm  that  they  were  possessed  of  full  and  exclu- 
sive truth.  Why,  If  I  say  that  there  is  a  God, 
that  the  world  began,  all  will  agree  with  me,  and 
this  recognition  of  God  will  unite  us;  but  if  I  say 
there  is  a  god  Brahma,  or  a  Jewish  god,  or  a 
Trinity  —  such  a  divinity  disunites.  Men  want 
to  unite  and  invent  a  means  to  that  end,  but  they 
disregard  the  only  certain  means  of  union  —  an 


76  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

aspiration  after  truth.  It  is  as  if  in  a  great  build- 
ing, where  the  light  falls  from  the  roof  on  to  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  men  were  to  stand  in  groups 
in  the  corners  instead  of  going  into  the  light.  If 
they  went  into  the  light  they  would,  without  think- 
ing about  it,  be  united. 

Father  Vastly. 

But  how  would  you  guide  the  people  without 
having,  so  to  speak,  a  fixed  truth? 

Nicholas. 

That  is  the  horror  of  it.  Each  of  us  has  his 
own  soul  to  save,  has  God's  work  to  do,  and  we 
are  all  anxious  about  saving  and  teaching  others. 
And  what  do  we  teach  them  ?  It  is  simply  hor- 
rible to  think  that  at  the  end  of  the  nineteenth 
century  we  are  teaching  that  God  created  the 
world  in  six  days,  then  sent  a  flood,  putting  all  the 
animals  into  the  Ark,  and  all  the  absurd  nonsense 
of  the  Old  Testament;  and  then  that  Christ  or- 
dered us  to  be  baptised  in  water,  or  the  absurdity 
of  the  redemption  without  which  you  cannot  be 
saved;  then  that  Christ  flew  away  to  skies  which 
do  not  exist,  and  there  sits  at  the  right  hand  of 
God  the  Father.  We  are  accustomed  to  all  this, 
but  really  it  is  terrible.  A  pure  child,  open  to 
good  and  truth,  asks  us  what  the  world  is,  what  its 
law  is,  and  instead  of  teaching  him  the  love  and 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  77 

truth  which  we  have  believed,  we  carefully  stuff 
his  head  with  all  sorts  of  dreadful,  absurd  lies 
and  horrors,  ascribing  them  all  to  God.  This  is 
awful.  It  is  a  crime  that  nothing  can  surpass. 
And  we,  and  you  with  your  Church,  do  all  this. 
Forgive  me. 

Father  Vasily. 

Yes,   if  you  look  at   Christ's  teaching  in  that 
way  —  rationally,  so  to  speak.  —  then  it  Is  so. 

Nicholas. 
It  is  the  same,  no  matter  in  what  way  you  look 
at  it. 

(Silence.     The  Priest  takes  leave 
of  him.     Enter  Alexandra   Ivan- 

OVNA.) 

Alexandra. 

Good-bye,    Father   Vasily.     Do    not   listen   to 
him;  he  will  lead  you  astray. 

Father  Vasily. 
Oh  no !     One  must  put  the  Gospel  to  the  test. 
It  is  too  important  a  matter  to  be  neglected,  isn't 
It? 

{Exit.) 

Alexandra. 

Really,   Nicholas,   you   have   no   pity   on   him. 
Though  he  Is  a  priest,  he  Is  little  more  than  a 


78  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

boy.     He  cannot  have  settled  convictions;  he  can- 
not  be  steadfast.     ... 

Nicholas. 

Are  we  to  let  him  become  confirmed  in  them, 
to  harden  in  deceit?  Why  should  we?  Ah,  he 
is  a  good,  sincere  man. 

x'\lexandra. 

Well,  what  would  happen  to  him  were  he  to 
believe  you? 

Nicholas. 

It  Is  not  a  question  of  believing  me;  but  if  he 
could  see  the  truth  it  would  be  well  for  him  and 
for  every  one. 

Alexandra. 

If  it  were  really  well,  all  would  believe  you. 
As  it  is,  we  see  just  the  contrary.  No  one  be- 
lieves you  —  your  wife  least  of  all.  She  cannot 
believe  you. 

Nicholas. 
Who  told  you  so? 

Alexandra. 
Well,  explain  all  this  to  Masha.  She  never 
understood  and  never  will,  and  no  one  in  the 
world  ever  will,  understand  why  you  should  take 
care  of  strangers  and  neglect  your  own  children. 
Explain  that  to  Masha. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  79 

Nicholas. 

Masha  is  sure  to  understand.  Forgive  me, 
Aline,  but  if  it  were  not  for  outside  influences,  to 
which  she  is  so  susceptible,  she  would  understand 
me  and  go  hand-in-hand  with  me. 

Alexandra. 

To  deprive  her  own  children  for  the  drunken 
Ephim  and  Co.?  Never.  As  for  your  being 
angry  with  me,  you  will  excuse  me,  but  I  cannot 
help  speaking. 

Nicholas. 

I  am  not  angry.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  very 
glad  that  you  said  all  you  had  to  say,  and  gave 
me  the  opportunity  of  giving  all  my  own  views. 
I  thought  it  over  on  my  way  to-day,  and  I  am  go- 
ing to  tell  her  at  once,  and  you  will  see  that  she 
will  agree,  for  she  is  both  wise  and  good. 

Alexandra. 

You  will  allow  me  to  have  my  doubts. 

Nicholas. 

Well,  I  have  none.  This  is  no  invention  of 
mine :  it  is  what  we  all  know,  and  what  Christ 
revealed  to  us. 

Alexandra. 

You  think  He  revealed  this?  I  think  He 
revealed  something  quite  different. 


8o  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Nicholas. 

There  can  be  nothing  different.  Just  listen. 
Do  not  argue;  listen  to  me. 

Alexandra. 
I  am  listening. 

Nicholas. 

You  admit  that  at  any  minute  we  may  die  and 
return  to  nothingness  or  to  God,  who  demands 
that  we  should  live  according  to  His  will. 

Alexandra. 

Well  ? 

Nicholas. 

Well,  what  else  am  I  to  do  in  this  life  but  that 
which  the  highest  Judge  that  is  in  my  soul  —  my 
conscience,  God  —  demands?  My  conscience, 
God,  demands  that  I  should  consider  all  men 
equal,  should  love  and  serve  all. 

Alexandra. 
Your  children  among  the  rest. 

Nicholas. 

Of  course;  but  I  must  do  everything  my  con- 
science dictates.  The  most  important  thing  of  all 
is  to  recognise  that  my  life  does  not  belong  to  me, 
nor  yours  to  you,  but  to  God,  who  sent  us  and 
requires  us  to  live  according  to  His  will.  And 
His  will 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  8i 

Alexandra. 
And  you  will  convince  Masha  of  this? 

Nicholas. 
Certainly. 

Alexandra. 

She  will  cease  to  educate  her  children  as  she 
should  and  will  desert  them?     Never. 

Nicholas. 

Not  only  she;  you  too  will  understand  that  that 
is  the  only  thing  to  do. 

Alexandra. 
Never! 

(Ente?-  Marie  Ivanovna.) 

Nicholas. 

Well,  Masha,  I  hope  I  did  not  wake  you  ud 
this  morning. 

Marie. 

No,  I  was  not  asleep.     Did  you  have  a  pleasant 
journey? 

Nicholas. 
Yes,  very  pleasant. 

Marie. 
Why  are  you  drinking  that  cold  tea?     Anyhow, 
we  must  have  some   fresh  made   for  our  guests. 
You  know  that  Princess  Cheremshanova  is  com- 
ing with  her  son  and  daughter. 


82  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Nicholas. 
If  you  are  pleased,  so  am  I. 

Marie. 

Yes.      I  am  very  fond  of  her  and  of  her  chil- 
dren, but  it  is  hardly  the  moment  for  visitors. 

Alexandra. 

Well,  have  a  talk  with  him,  and  I  will  go  and 
watch  the  game. 

{A  silence,  after  which  Marie 
IvANovNA  titid  Nicholas  Ivano- 
VICH  both  speak  at  once.) 

Marie. 
It  is  hardly  the  moment,  because  we  must 
talk  things  over. 

Nicholas. 
I  was  just  telling  Aline. 

Marie. 

What? 

Nicholas. 
No;  you  speak. 

Marie. 

Well,  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  Stephen. 
Something  must  be  decided.     The  poor  boy  is  In 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  83 

suspense,  does  not  know  what  is  going  to  happen, 
and  comes  to  me;  but  how  can  I  decide? 

Nicholas. 

How  can  any  one  decide?  He  can  decide  for 
himself. 

Marie. 

Why,  you  know  he  wants  to  enter  the  Guards 
as  a  volunteer,  and  he  cannot  do  it  without  a  cer- 
tificate from  you,  and  he  must  have  money,  and 
you  give  him  nothing   (agitated.) 

Nicholas. 

Masha,  for  heaven's  sake  do  not  get  agitated, 
and  listen  to  me.  I  neither  give  nor  refuse.  To 
enter  the  military  service  voluntarily  I  consider 
foolish  madness,  such  as  only  a  savage  is  capable 
of.  If  he  does  not  understand  the  meanness,  the 
baseness  of  such  an  action,  or  if  he  does  it  out  of 
self-interest  — 

Marie. 

Oh,  everything  seems  mad  and  foolish  to  you 
now.     He  wants  to  live  —  you  have  lived. 

Nicholas. 

{hotly.)  I  lived  without  understanding,  with  no 
one  to  tell  me.  But  it  depends  on  him  now  — 
not  on  me. 


84  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Marie. 

But  It  does  depend  on  you,  when  you  give  him 
no  money. 

Nicholas. 
I  cannot  give  what  does  not  belong  to  me. 

Marie. 

What  do  you  mean  by  "  does  not  belong  to 
me"  ? 

Nicholas. 

The  labour  of  others  does  not  belong  to  me. 
To  give  him  money,  I  must  take  from  others. 
I  have  no  right  to;  I  cannot.  So  long  as  I  am 
the  master  of  the  estate  I  cannot  dispose  of  It 
otherwise  than  as  my  conscience  dictates.  I  can- 
not spend  the  labour  of  peasants,  which  costs  them 
their  whole  strength,  on  the  drinking-bouts  of  a 
hussar.  Take  the  estate  from  me;  then  I  shall 
not  be  responsible. 

Marie. 

You  know  I  do  not  want  that,  and  I  cannot  do 
it.  I  have  to  educate  the  children,  to  nurse  them, 
to  bring  them  into  the  world.      It  Is  cruel. 

Nicholas. 

Dearest  Masha,  that  Is  not  the  point.  When 
you  began  to  speak,  I  began  also,  and  I  wanted  so 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  85 

to  talk  frankly  to  you.  All  this  is  impossible. 
We  live  together,  and  do  not  understand  each 
other;  sometimes  it  seems  as  though  we  misunder- 
stood each  other  on  purpose. 

Marie. 

I  want  to  understand  you,  but  I  cannot.  I  can- 
not understand  what  has  come  over  you. 

Nicholas. 

Then  try  to  understand  now.  It  is  hardly  the 
moment,  but  heaven  knows  when  there  will  be 
a  moment.  Try  to  understand  not  only  me,  but 
yourself  and  your  own  life.  We  cannot  go  on 
living  without  knowing  what  we  live  for. 

Marie. 

We  lived  so  before,  and  we  lived  very  well 
{noting  an  expression  of  displeasure  on  his  face.) 
—  All  right;  I  am  listening. 

Nicholas. 

I  used  to  live  thus,  thus  —  that  Is  to  say,  with- 
out thinking  why  I  lived;  but  the  time  came  when 
I  was  aghast.  We  live  on  the  labour  of  others, 
we  make  others  work  for  us,  we  bring  children 
Into  the  world,  and  educate  them  for  the  same 
thing.     Old   age,   death,   will  come,   and   I   shall 


86  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

ask  myself:  "  What  did  I  live  for?  To  produce 
parasites  like  myself?"  Besides,  this  life  is  not 
even  amusing.  It  is  only  tolerable  when  one  is 
overflowing  with  the  energy  of  life,  like  Vania. 

Marie. 
Every  one  lives  like  that. 

Nicholas. 
And  every  one  is  unhappy. 

Marie. 
Not  at  all. 

Nicholas. 

I,  at  least,  discovered  that  I  was  terribly  un- 
happy, and  that  I  was  causing  you  and  the  children 
to  be  unhappy,  and  I  asked  myself:  "  Is  it  possible 
that  God  created  you  for  this?  "  And  directly  I 
thought  that,  I  felt  that  the  answer  was  "  No." 
Then  I  asked  myself:  "  What  did  God  create  us 
for?" 

(//  footman  enters.  Marie 
IVANOVNA  does  not  listen  to  her  hus- 
band, but  speaks  to  the  footman.) 

Marie. 
Bring  some  hot  milk. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  87 

Nicholas. 

I  found  the  answer  in  the  Gospel :  we  do  not 
live  for  ourselves  at  all.  It  was  revealed  to  me 
clearly  once  when  I  was  thinking  over  the  parable 
of  the  labourers  in  the  vineyard.  Do  you  remem- 
ber it? 

Marie. 
Yes;  I  know  the  labourers. 

Nicholas. 

Somehow  or  other  that  parable  showed  me  my 
mistake  more  clearly  than  anything.  I  had  be- 
lieved that  my  life  was  my  own  just  as  those  la- 
bourers believed  that  the  vineyard  was  theirs,  and 
everything  was  terrible  to  me.  But  as  soon  as  I 
realised  that  my  life  was  not  my  own,  that  I  was 
sent  into  the  world  to  do  the  work  of  God  — 

Marie. 
What  of  that?     We  all  know  that. 

Nicholas. 

Well,  if  we  know  it,  we  cannot  continue  to  live 
as  we  do,  when  we  know  our  whole  life  is  not  a 
fulfilment  of  this  will,  but,  on  the  contrary,  is  in 
perpetual  contradiction  to  It. 


88  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Marie. 

In  what  way  Is  it  a  contradiction  when  we  do 
no  harm  to  any  one? 

Nicholas. 

How  can  you  say  we  do  no  harm  to  any  one? 
That  is  exactly  the  conception  of  life  that  the 
labourers  in  the  vineyard  had.     We  — 

Marie. 

Oh,  yes;  I  know  the  parable.  Well,  what  of 
it?     He  gave  them  all  the  same  portion. 

Nicholas. 

{after  a  silence.)  No;  that  is  not  it.  But  think 
of  this,  Masha;  we  have  only  one  life,  and  it  Is 
in  our  power  to  live  It  devoutly  or  to  ruin  it 

Marie. 

I  cannot  think  and  discuss.  I  get  no  sleep  at 
night;  I  am  nursing  baby.  I  manage  the  whole 
household,  and  instead  of  helping  me  you  keep 
on  telling  me  things  I  do  not  understand. 

Nicholas. 
Masha! 

Marie. 
And  now  these  visitors  are  arriving. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  89 

Nicholas. 
But  we  will  talk  It  out  to  the  end,  shall  we  not? 
{He  kisses  her.)      Yes? 

Marie. 
Yes.     But  do  be  your  former  self. 

Nicholas. 

That  I  cannot.     But  listen  to  me  — 

( The  sound  of  approaching  car- 
riage bells  and  wheels  is  heard.) 

Marie. 

There  is  no  time  now  —  they  have  arrived.     I 
must  go  to  them. 

{Disappears  round  the  corner  of 
the  house,  followed  by  Stephen  and 
LuBA.  Alexandra  Ivanovna  and 
her  husband  and  LiSA  come  on  to  the 
veranda.  NICHOLAS  IvANOVlCH 
walks  about  in  deep  thought.) 

Vania. 

{jumping  over  a  bench.)      I  don't  give  in;  we'll 
finish  the  game!     Well,  Luba? 

LUBA. 
{seriously.)      No  nonsense,  please  I 


90  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Alexandra. 
Well,  have  you  convinced  her? 

Nicholas. 
Aline,  what  is  going  on  between  us  now  is  seri- 
ous, and  jokes  are  quite  out  of  place.  It  is  not  I 
who  am  convincing  her,  but  life,  truth,  God. 
Therefore  she  cannot  help  being  convinced — if 
not  to-day,  then  to-morrow;  if  not  to-morrow  — 
The  worst  of  it  all  is  that  no  one  ever  has  time. 
Who  has  come? 

Peter. 

The  Cheremshanovs — Katia  Cheremshanova, 
whom  I  have  not  seen  for  eighteen  years.  The 
last  time  we  met  we  sang  together:  "  La  ei  darem 
la  mano."      {He  sings.) 

Alexandra. 

{to  her  husband.)  Please  do  not  interfere,  and 
do  not  imagine  that  I  have  quarrelled  with  Nicho- 
las. I  am  speaking  the  truth.  {To  Nicho- 
las.) I  was  not  joking  in  the  least,  but  it  seemed 
so  strange  that  you  wanted  to  convince  Masha  at 
the  very  moment  when  she  wanted  to  talk  matters 
over  with  you. 

Nicholas. 
Very  well,  very  well.     Here  they  are.     Please 
tell  Masha  that  I  am  in  my  room.      {Exit.) 


ACT  II 

Scene  I 

Same   place   in    the   country.      Time:    One   week 
later. 

{Scene  represents  large  drawing- 
room.  Table  is  laid  with  samovar, 
tea  and  coffee.  Piano  against  the 
wall,  music-rack. 

Marie  Ivanovna,  the  Princess, 
and  Peter  Semenovich  are  seated 
at  the  table.) 

Peter. 

Yes,  Princess.  It  does  not  seem  so  long  ago 
that  you  used  to  sing  Rosine,  and  I  .  .  . 
Whereas  now  I  should  not  even  do  for  a  Don 
Basilio. 

Princess. 
Now  the  children  might  sing,  but  times  have 
altered. 

Peter. 
Yes,    they    are    positivists.      But    I    hear    your 
daughter  is  a  very  serious  and  excellent  musician. 
Are  they  still  asleep? 

91 


92  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Marie. 

Yes,  they  went  out  riding  by  moonlight  and 
returned  very  late.  1  was  nursing  baby  and  heard 
them. 

Peter. 

And  when  does  my  better  half  return?  Have 
you  sent  the  carriage  for  her? 

Marie. 

Yes,  it  went  a  long  time  ago.  She  ought  to  be 
here  soon. 

Princess. 

Did  Alexandra  Ivanovna  really  go  with  the  sole 
purpose  of  fetching  Father  Gerasim? 

Marie. 
Yes,  the  thought  suddenly  struck  her  yesterday, 
and  she  flew  off  at  once. 

Princess. 
What  energy!     I  admire  it. 

Peter. 

Oh,  as  to  that,  it  never  fails  us.  {Takes  out  a 
cigar.)  Well,  I  think  I'll  take  a  turn  in  the  park 
with  the  dogs  and  smoke  while  the  young  people 
are  getting  up. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  93 

Princess. 

I  don't  know,  dear  Marie  Ivanovna,  but  I  really 
think  you  take  it  too  much  to  heart.  I  under- 
stand him.  He  is  full  of  such  high  aspiration. 
What  does  it  matter  if  he  does  give  his  property 
away  to  the  poor?  It's  only  too  true  that  we  all 
think  too  much  of  ourselves. 

Marie. 

Oh,  if  it  were  only  that.  But  you  don't  know 
him  —  you  do  not  know  all.  It  is  not  only  help- 
ing the  poor.  It  is  a  complete  change  —  the 
utter  wrecking  of  everything. 

Princess. 

I  certainly  do  not  wish  to  intrude  into  your 
family  life,  but  if  you  would  allow  me     .     .     . 

Marie. 

But  I  look  on  you  as  one  of  the  family,  espe- 
cially now. 

Princess. 

I  should  just  advise  you  to  put  your  demands 
plainly  before  him,  and  openly  come  to  some 
agreement  with  him  as  to  the  limits  — 

Marie. 
(agitated.)      There  are  no  limits  1     He  wishes  to 


94  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

give  everything  away.  He  wants  me  at  my  age  to 
become  a  cook  —  a  laundress. 

Princess. 
Oh,  impossible!     How  extraordinary  I 

Marie. 

(taking  out  a  letter.)  Now  we  are  quite  alone;  I 
should  like  to  tell  you  everything.  Yesterday  he 
wrote  me  this  letter.      I  will  read  it  to  you. 

Princess. 

What !  living  in  the  same  house  with  you,  he 
writes  you  letters?     How  strange  ! 

Marie. 

Oh,  no.  I  quite  understand.  He  gets  so  ex- 
cited when  he  talks  I  have  been  feeling  anxious 
about  his  health  lately. 

Princess. 
Well,  what  does  he  write? 

Marie. 

Listen.  {8he  reads.)  "  You  reproach  me  for 
destroying  our  former  life  without  offering  you 
anything  else  or  saying  how  I  intend  to  provide 
for  my  family.  When  we  begin  to  talk  we  both 
get  excited,  so  I  am  writing  instead.      I  have  told 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  95 

you  many  times  why  I  can't  go  on  living  as  I  have 
done.  And  as  for  trying  to  convince  you  that  it 
is  wrong  to  live  as  we  have  been  accustomed  to 
do,  that  we  must  lead  a  Christian  life,  I  cannot 
do  that  in  a  letter.  You  can  do  one  of  two  things 
■ —  either  believe  in  truth  and  liberty  and  go 
with  me,  or  believe  in  me,  give  yourself  trustfully 
to  me,  and  follow  me."  {Slops  reading.)  But 
I  can  do  neither  of  these  things !  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  I  ought  to  live  as  he  desires,  and  more- 
over I  love  the  children  and  I  cannot  trust  him. 
{Continues  to  read.)  "  My  plan  is  this.  We 
will  give  all  our  land  to  the  peasants,  leaving  our- 
selves fifty  acres  and  the  kitchen  garden  and  the 
flooded  meadow.  We  will  try  to  work,  but  we 
will  not  force  ourselves  or  our  children  to  work. 
What  we  reserve  for  ourselves  will  bring  in  about 
five  hundred  roubles  *  a  year." 

Princess. 

ft  is  impossible  to  live  on  five  hundred  roubles 
a  year  with  seven  children. 

Marie. 

Well,  and  then  he  goes  on  to  say  that  we  will 
give  up  our  house  for  a  school  and  live  in  the 
gardener's  cottage,  in  two  rooms. 

*  A  rouble  =  about  2S. 


96  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Princess. 

Yes,  I  really  begin  to  think  that  he's  not  well. 
What  have  you  answered? 

Marie. 

I  told  him  I  could  not  agree  to  it.  That,  were 
I  alone,  I  would  follow  him  anywhere.  But  with 
the  children  .  .  .  Just  think — I  am  nursing 
little  Nicholas.  I  told  him  it  was  impossible  to 
break  up  everything  like  that.  Was  this  what  I 
married  him  for?  I  am  already  old  and  feeble. 
It  is  not  an  easy  matter  to  bring  nine  children  into 
the  world  and  nurse  them. 

Princess. 
I  never  dreamt  It  had  gone  so  far  I 

Marie. 

Well,  that  is  how  matters  stand,  and  I  can't 
imagine  what  will  become  of  us.  Yesterday  he 
remitted  the  entire  rent  of  the  peasants  from 
Dmitrovka,  and  he  intends  to  give  that  land  to 
them  outright. 

Princess. 

I  really  think  you  ought  not  to  permit  that.  It 
is  our  duty  to  protect  our  children.  If  he  cannot 
own  his  estate  himself,  let  him  give  it  to  you. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  97 

Marie. 
I  don't  want  it. 

Princess. 
But  it  is  your  duty  to  retain  it,  for  the  sake  of 
your  children.      Let  him  make  it  over  to  you. 

Marie. 

My  sister  suggested  that  to  him,  but  he  said  he 
had  no  right  to  dispose  of  it,  as  the  land  belonged 
to  those  who  tilled  it,  and  it  was  his  duty  to  give 
it  to  the  peasants. 

Princess. 

Yes,  I  see  it  is  really  much  more  serious  than  I 
thought. 

Marie. 

And  fancy!  our  priest  is  on  his  side. 

Princess. 
I  noticed  that  yesterday. 

Marie. 
Now  my  sister  has  gone  to  Moscow  to  consult  a 
lawyer,   and  above  all  to  bring  Father  Gerasim 
back  with  her  to  see  if  he  has  any  Influence  with 
him. 

Princess. 

I  do  not  think  tha<-  Christianity  consists  In  ruin- 
ing one's  own  family. 


98  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Marie. 

But  he  will  not  trust  Father  Gerasim.  He  is 
too  far  confirmed  in  his  convictions,  and  you  know 
when  he  talks  I  can  find  no  arguments  to  use 
against  him.  The  worst  of  it  is  —  I  believe  he  is 
right. 

Princess. 

That  is  only  because  you  love  him. 

Marie. 

I  do  not  know  why,  but  it  is  dreadful,  dreadful. 
Everything  remains  unsettled.  That's  what  re- 
ligion does ! 

{Enter  Nurse.) 

Nurse. 

Please,  ma'am,  the  baby  is  awake  and  wants 
you. 

Marie. 

I  will  come  in  a  moment.  I  am  worried,  and 
the  baby  has  colic,  you  see.     I  am  coming. 

{Exit  Princess.) 
{From  the  other  side  enters  Nicho- 
las with  a  paper  in  his  hand.) 

Nicholas. 

It  is  incredible ! 

Marie 

What  is  the  matter? 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  99 

Nicholas. 

The  matter  is  just  this,  that  for  a  pine  tree  of 
ours,  Peter  is  to  go  to  jail. 

Marie. 

Bnt  why? 

Nicholas. 

Because  he  felled  it.  They  took  the  matter  to 
court,  and  he  is  sentenced  to  a  month's  imprison- 
ment.    His  wife  came  to  implore  me  — 

Marie. 

Well,   can't  you  help  her? 

Nicholas. 

I  cannot  now.  The  only  thing  to  do  is  not  to 
own  any  forest;  and  I  will  not!  I  will  just  go 
and  see  if  I  can  help  in  the  trouble  of  which  I  my- 
self have  been  the  cause. 

{Enter  LuBA  and  Boris.) 

LuBA. 

Good  morning,  father.  (Kisses  him.) 
Where  are  you  going? 

Nicholas. 

T  have  just  come  from  the  village  and  I'm  now 
on  my  way  back.  A  himgiy  man  is  being  put  in 
jail  for  — 


100  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

LUBA. 

It's  probably  Peter. 

Nicholas. 

Yes  —  Peter. 

{Exeunt  Nicholas  and  Marie  IvanovnaJ 

LUBA. 

{sitting   down   before   the   samovar.)      Will   you 
take  coffee  or  tea? 

Boris. 
I  do  not  care. 

LUBA. 

Things  are  just  as  they  were.  I  cannot  see  how 
it  will  end. 

Boris. 
I   do  not  quite  understand  him.      I   know  the 
peasants  are  poor  and  ignorant,  that  it's  our  duty 
to  help   them.     But  not  by  showing  favour  to 
thieves. 

LuBA. 

But  how? 

Boris.  " 

By  everything  we  do.  We  must  dedicate  all 
our  knowledge  to  them,  but  we  cannot  give  up  our 
life. 

LUBA. 
Father  says  that  is  just  what  we  must  do. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  loi 

Boris. 
I  do  not  see  why.     It  is  quite  possible  to  help 
the  people   without   ruining  one's   own   life,    and 
that    is   what    I    intend    doing    myself.     If    only 
you  — 

LUBA. 

Your  wishes  are  mine.  And  I  am  not  afraid 
of  anything. 

Boris. 
But  what  about  your  ear-rings,  and  your  dress? 

LUBA. 

The  ear-rings  we  can  sell,  and  as  for  the  frock, 
I  might  dress  differently  without  being  altogether 
ugly. 

Boris. 
I  want  to  have  another  talk  with  him.     Do  you 
think  I  should  be  in  his  way  if  I  went  to  the  vil- 
lage? 

LUBA. 
I'm  sure  you  wouldn't.      I  can  see  he  is  very 
fond  of  you.     Yesterday  he  talked  to  you  nearly 
all  the  time. 

Boris. 
Then  I'll  go. 

LUBA. 

Yes,  do.  And  I'll  go  and  wake  up  Lisa  and 
Tonia. 

(Exit  on  different  sides.) 


102  THE  LIGHT  THAT 


Scene  II 

Village  street.  The  peasant  Ivan  Ziabrev  is 
lying  on  the  ground  at  a  cottage  door,  with  a 
sheepskin  coat  over  him. 

Ivan. 

Malashka! 

{From  behind  the  cottage  comes  a 
little  girl  with   a  baby   in  her  arms. 
The  baby  cries.) 
I  want  a  drink  of  water. 

(Malashka  goes  into  the  cottage. 
The  baby  is  heard  crying  still.      She 
brings  a  jug  of  water.) 
Why  do  you  hit  the  baby  and  make  him  howl? 
I'll  tell  your  mother. 

Malashka. 

Do  tell  mother!  Baby's  howling  because  he's 
hungry. 

Ivan. 

(drinking.)      Why   don't   you   go   and   get   some 
milk  at  Demkin's? 

Malashka. 

I  have  been.  They  haven't  got  any,  and  there 
was  not  a  soul  at  home. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  103 

Ivan. 
Oh,  I  wish  Death  would  come  quicker.     Has 
the  dinner  bell  rung? 

Malashka. 

{screaming  at  the  top  of  her  voice.)      Yes,  It  has 
rung!     There's  the  master  coming! 

{Enter  NICHOLAS.) 

Nicholas. 
Why  are  you  lying  out  here? 

Ivan. 
There  are  flies  there.     And  it's  too  hot. 

Nicholas. 
Have  you  got  warm  then? 

Ivan. 
I  feel  as  if  I  were  on  fire  now. 

Nicholas. 
Where  is  Peter?     At  home? 

Ivan. 
How  could  he  be,  at  this  hour?     He's  gone  to 
the  fields  to  bring  in  the  sheaves. 

Nicholas. 
I  was  told  he  had  been  arrested. 


104  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Ivan. 

That's  quite  true.  The  policeman  has  gone  to 
the  field  after  him. 

{Enter  a  pregnant  Woman,  with 
a  sheaf  of  oats  and  a  pitchfork,  and 
immediately  hits  Malashka  over  the 
head.) 

Woman. 

Why  did  you  go  away  from  the  baby?  Do 
listen  to  him  screaming.  You  only  think  of  run- 
ning out  in  the  road. 

Malashka. 

{crying  loudly.)      I  just  came  out  to  give  father  a 
drink  of  water. 

Woman. 

I'll  give  it  you.  {Sees  Nicholas  Ivano- 
VICH.)  Good-day,  Nicholas  Ivanovich.  You 
see  what  they  are  all  bringing  me  to !  There's  no 
one  but  me  to  do  anything,  and  I'm  worn  out. 
Now  they're  taking  our  very  last  man  to  jail,  and 
this  lazy  lout  is  lying  about  doing  nothing. 

Nicholas. 
Why  do  you  say  that?     You  can  see  he  is  ill. 

Woman. 
Ill,   indeed.     What  about  me?     When  there's 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  105 

work  to  be  done  then  he's  sick,  but  if  he  wants  to 
go  on  the  spree  and  knock  me  about,  he's  well 
enough.      Let  him  die  like  a  dog.      I  don't  care. 

Nicholas. 

How  sinful  to  talk  like  that! 

Woman. 

I  know  it's  a  sin.  But  my  temper  gets  the 
better  of  me.  Look  how  I  am,  and  I  have  to 
work  for  two.  All  the  others  have  got  their  oats 
in,  and  a  quarter  of  our  field  isn't  cut  yet.  I 
ought  not  to  have  stopped,  but  I  had  to  come 
home  and  see  after  the  children. 

Nicholas. 
I  will  have  your  oats  cut  for  you  and  will  send 
some  binders  out  to  your  field. 

Woman. 

Oh,  I  can  manage  the  binding  myself,  if  we 
can  only  get  it  cut.  Oh,  Nicholas  Ivanovich,  do 
you  think  he's  going  to  die?  He's  very  low  in- 
deed. 

Nicholas. 

I'm  sure  I  don't  know;  but  he's  certainly  very 
weak.  I  think  he  had  better  be  taken  to  the  hos- 
pital. 

Woman. 

Oh,     my    God!      {Begins     to     weep    loudly.) 


io6  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Don't  take  him  away.     Let  him  die  here.      ( To 
the  husband.)      What  did  you  say? 

Ivan. 
I  want  to  go  to  hospital.     I'm  lying  here  worse 
than  a  dog. 

Woman. 
Oh,  I  don't  know  what  to  do !      I  shall  go  mad  ! 
Malashka,  get  dinner! 

Nicholas. 
And  what  have  you  got  for  dinner? 

Woman. 
Some   potatoes   and   bread.     That's   all   we've 
got.      {Goes   into    cottage,    the   sounds    of  a  pig 
squealing  and  children  crying  are  heard.) 

Ivan. 

{groaning.)      Oh,  God,  if  Death  would  come! 

{Enter  BORIS.) 

Boris. 
Can't  I  be  of  any  use  here! 

Nicholas, 
No  one  can  be  of  any  use  here.      The  evil  is 
too  deeply  rooted.      We  can  only  be  of  use  to  our- 
selves by  realising  on  what  foundations  we  build 
our    happiness.      Here -is    a    family  —  five    chil- 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  107 

dren  —  the  wife  pregnant,  the  husband  ill,  and 
nothing  in  the  house  to  eat  but  potatoes.  And  at 
this  moment  it  is  a  question  whether  they  will  have 
food  for  next  year.  And  there  is  no  help  for 
them.  How  can  one  help?  I  am  going  to  hire 
a  man  to  work  for  them.  But  who  will  that  man 
be?  A  man  as  badly  off  as  they  are,  who  has 
given  up  tilling  his  own  land  through  drunkenness 
or  poverty. 

Boris. 

Excuse  me,  but  If  that  is  the  case,  why  are  you 
here? 

Nicholas. 

I  am  trying  to  ascertain  my  own  position;  to 

know   who    looks   after   our   gardens,    builds    our 

houses,  makes  our  clothes,   feeds  and  dresses  us. 

(Peasants      with     scythes      and 

Women  with  pitchforks  pass   them. 

They  how  to  the  master.) 

Nicholas. 

{stopping  one  of  them.)  Ephraim,  can  you  take 
the  job  of  cutting  Ivan's  oats  for  him? 

Ephraim. 
{shaking  his  head.)      I'd  do  it  gladly,  but  I  can't. 
I  haven't  got  my  own  in  yet.      I'm  just  hurrying 
off  to  do  it  now.      Why?      Is  Ivan  dying? 


io8  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Another  Peasant. 
There's  old  Sebastian.      Maybe  he  can  take  the 
job.     Sebastian!     They  want  a  man  to  reap. 

Sebastian. 
Take  the  job  yourself  if  you  want  It.     One  day 
may  mean  the  whole  year  in  such  weather  as  this. 

Nicholas. 
{to  Boris.)  All  those  men  are  half-starved, 
many  of  them  ill  or  old,  living  on  bread  and 
water.  Look  at  that  old  man.  He  suffers  from 
rupture  —  and  he  works  from  four  in  the  morn- 
ing till  ten  at  night,  and  is  barely  alive.  And  we 
—  now,  is  it  possible,  when  we  once  understand 
this,  to  go  on  living  quietly  and  calling  ourselves 
Christians?  Can  we  call  ourselves  anything  short 
of  beasts? 

Boris. 
But  what  are  we  to  do? 

Nicholas. 
Not  be  a  party  to  evil.  Not  possess  land. 
Not  feed  upon  their  toil.  How  this  can  be  man- 
aged I  do  not  know.  The  thing  Is  —  at  least  so 
It  was  with  me.  I  lived  and  did  not  understand 
what  sort  of  life  I  led.  I  didn't  understand  that 
I  was  a  son  of  God  and  that  we  were  all  sons  of 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  109 

God  and  all  brothers.  But  when  I  came  to  under- 
stand that,  when  I  saw  that  all  had  equal  claims 
on  life,  my  whole  life  was  changed.  I  cannot  ex- 
plain it  very  well  to  you,  I  can  only  say  that  be- 
fore, I  was  blind,  just  as  my  family  still  are,  but 
now  my  eyes  are  opened  I  cannot  help  seeing. 
And,  seeing,  I  cannot  go  on  living  as  before. 
But,  of  course,  for  the  present  we  must  do  as  best 
we  can. 

{Enter     Police-Sergeant,     with 
Peter,  and  his  wife  and  a  boy.) 

Peter. 
{falling  on   his   knees  before  Nicholas  Ivano- 
viCH.)      Forgive    me,     for    Christ's    sake.      I'm 
done     for!      My    wife    can't    get    along    alone. 
Can't  you  let  me  go  on  bail? 

Nicholas. 

I  will  see  about  it.  I  will  write.  ( To  the 
Police-Sergeant.)  Couldn't  you  let  him  stay 
here  meanwhile? 

Sergeant. 

I  have  orders  to  take  him  to  the  police-station. 

Nicholas. 
Go  then;  I  will  hire  a  labourer.      I  will  do  all 
that  is  possible.     This  Is  my  fault.     How  can  one 
live  like  this? 

{Exit.) 


no  THE  LIGHT  THAT 


Scene     III 

Same  as  Scene  I.  //  is  raining  outside. 
Drawing-room  with  a  piano.  TONIA  has  just 
finished  playing  the  Schumann  Sonata,  and  is  still 
sitting  at  the  piano.  Stephen  stands  near  the 
piano.  After  the  music,  Luba,  Lisa,  Anna 
IvANOVNA,  MiTROFAN  Dmitrich  and  the  Priest 
are  all  greatly  moved. 

Luba. 
The  Andante  is  so  lovely. 

Stephen. 
No  —  the   Scherzo!     But   the   whole    thing   Is 
charming. 

Beautiful ! 


Lisa. 


Stephen. 
{to  ToNiA.)      I  had  no  idea  you  were  such  an 
artist.      Your  rendering  is  masterly.      Difficulties 
do  not  seem  to  exist  for  you,  you  only  think  of 
the  expression,  and  it  is  so  exquisitely  delicate. 

Luba. 
So  noble,  too  1 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  iii 

TONIA. 

I  feel  It  Is  not  what  I  want  it  to  be.     There's  a 
great  deal  lacking  In  my  playing. 

Lisa. 

It  could  not  be  better.     It  Is  marvellous. 

LUBA. 

Schumann  is  very  great.      But  I  think  Chopin 
appeals  to  the  heart  more. 

Stephen. 
He  Is  more  lyrical. 

TONIA. 

I  do  not  think  a  comparison  is  possible. 

LUBA. 

Do  you  remember  that  Prelude  of  his? 

TONIA. 

Do  you  mean  the  so-called  George  Sand  one? 

{Begins  to  play.) 

LUBA. 

No,    not   that   one.     That   is   lovely,   but   it  is 
hackneyed.      Please  play  this  one. 

(ToNiA   tries   to  play,   but  breaks 
off  and  stops.) 

LUBA. 

No,  the  one  iri  D  minor. 


112  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

TONIA. 

Oh,  this  one.  It  Is  wonderful.  It  Is  like  chaos 
before  the  Creation. 

Stephen. 

(laughs.)  Yes,  yes!  Do  play  it.  No,  better 
not  —  you  are  tired.  We  have  already  had  a 
wonderful  morning,  thanks  to  you. 

(ToNiA  rises  and  looks  out  of  the 
window. ) 

TONIA. 

There  are  the  peasants  again. 

LUBA. 

That's  what  is  so  precious  in  music.  I  under- 
stand Saul.  I'm  not  tormented  by  the  devil,  but 
I  know  how  Saul  felt.  There's  no  art  that  can 
make  one  forget  everything  like  music. 

TONIA. 

And  yet  you  are  going  to  marry  a  man  who 
doesn't  understand  music. 

LUBA. 

Oh,  but  —  Boris  does  understand  it. 

Boris. 
[absent-minded.)      Music! — Yes,    I   like   music. 
But  it  isn't  important.     And  I  am  rather  sorry 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  113 

for  the  life  that  people  lead  who  attach  so  much 
importance  to  it. 

( There  are  sweets  on  the  table  and 
they  all  eat.) 

LUBA. 

How  nice  to  be  engaged!  Then  one  always 
has  sweets. 

Boris. 
Oh,  it  is  not  I  —  it's  mother. 

TONIA. 
Very    nice    of    her.      {Goes    to    the    window.) 
Whom  do  you  want  to  see?     The  peasants  have 
come  to  see  Nicholas  Ivanovich. 

LuBA. 
{going   to    the   window.)      He    is   not   at   home. 
Wait. 

TONIA. 
And  what  about  poetry? 

LUBA. 

No,  the  value  of  music  is  that  it  takes  hold  of 
you,  and  carries  you  away  from  reality.  We  were 
all  so  gloomy  just  now,  and  when  you  began  to 
play,  everything  brightened.  It  did  really. 
Take  the  waltzes  of  Chopin.  They're  hackneyed, 
of  course,  but  — • 

TONIA. 

This  one?      {She  plays.) 


114  THE  LIGHT  THAT 


Scene  IV 

{Enter     Nicholas.     He     greets 
ToNiA,  LuBA,  Stephen,  and  Lisa.) 

Nicholas. 
{to  LuBA.)      Where's  Mother? 

LuBA. 
I    think   she   is   In   the   nursery.     Father,    how 
wonderfully     Tonia     plays.     Where     have     you 
been? 

Nicholas. 
In  the  village. 

(Stephen  calls  the  footman,  who 
enters.) 

Stephen. 
Bring  another  samovar. 

Nicholas. 
{shakes  hands  zvith  footman.)      Good  morning! 
{Footman    confused.     Exit.     Exit 
also  Nicholas.) 

Stephen. 

Poor  chap !  He's  so  embarrassed.  He 
doesn't  understand.  It's  as  If  we  were  all  guilty 
somehow. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  115 

Nicholas. 

(re-enters.)  I  was  going  to  my  room  without 
telling  you  what  I  felt.  I  think  it  was  wrong  of 
me.  (To  ToNiA.)  If  you,  who  are  our  guest, 
are  hurt  by  what  I  am  going  to  say,  please  forgive 
me,  as  I  must  speak.  You  said  just  now,  Luba, 
that  Tonia  played  well.  Here  you  are,  seven  or 
eight  healthy  young  men  and  women.  You  slept 
till  ten  o'clock.  Then  you  had  food  and  drink, 
and  you  are  still  eating,  and  you  play  and  discuss 
music.  And  there,  where  I  have  just  come  from, 
the  people  are  up  at  three  in  the  morning.  Some 
have  not  slept  at  all,  having  watched  the  cattle  all 
night,  and  all  of  them,  even  the  old,  the  sick,  and 
the  children,  and  the  women  with  babies  at  the 
breast  and  those  who  are  about  to  have  children, 
work  with  their  utmost  strength,  that  we  may 
enjoy  the  fruits  of  their  labour.  And  as  if  that 
were  not  enough,  one  of  them,  the  only  worker 
in  the  family,  is  just  now  being  dragged  to  prison 
because  in  the  spring  he  cut  down  a  pine-tree  in 
the  forest  which  is  called  mine  —  one  of  the  hun- 
dred thousand  that  grow  there.  Here  we  are, 
washed  and  dressed,  having  left  all  our  unclean- 
ness  in  the  bedrooms  for  slaves  to  carry  away. 
Eating,  drinking,  or  discussing,  which  touches  us 
more  —  Schumann  or  Chopin  —  and  which  of 
them  drives  away  our  ennui  the  more  effectually. 


ii6  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

That  is  what  I  thought  on  seeing  you  all  just  now, 
and  so  tell  you.  Just  think  whether  it  is  possible 
to  go  on  like  that!  {Standing  in  great  agita- 
tion.) 

Lisa. 
It  Is  true  —  quite  true. 

LUBA. 

Thinking  as  you  do,  life  is  impossible. 

Stephen. 

Why  Is  It  Impossible?  I  don't  see  why  we 
shouldn't  talk  about  Schumann  even  though  the 
peasants  are  poor.  The  one  doesn't  exclude  the 
other.     If  men  — 

Nicholas. 

(angrily.)  If  a  man  has  no  heart  and  Is  made 
of  wood  ■ — 

Stephen. 
Well,  I  will  be  silent. 

Tonia. 

This  problem  is  terrible.  And  it  is  the  prob- 
lem of  our  time.  We  must  not  be  afraid  of  it. 
We  must  look  reality  in  the  face  in  order  to  solve 
it. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  117 

Nicholas. 

There  is  no  time  to  wait  for  the  problem  to  be 
solved  by  concerted  action.  Each  of  us  may  die 
to-day  or  to-morrow.  How  am  I  to  live  without 
suffering  from  this  inner  conflict. 

Boris. 
Of  course  the  only  way  is  not  to  share  in  the 


ev 


il. 


Nicholas. 

Well,  forgive  me  if  I  have  hurt  you.  I  could 
not  help  saying  what  I  felt.      (Exit.) 

Stephen. 

How  could  we  avoid  sharing  in  it?  Our  whole 
life  is  bound  up  with  it. 

Boris. 

That  is  exactly  why  he  says  that  in  the  first 
place  one  ought  not  to  possess  property,  and  one's 
whole  life  should  be  so  altered  that  one  may  serve 
others,  and  not  be  served  by  them. 

TONIA. 
Oh,  I  see  you  are  quite  on  Nicholas  Ivanovich's 
side. 


ii8  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Boris. 

Yes,  I  begin  to  understand  for  the  first  time; 
and,  besides,  all  I  saw  in  the  village.  We  have 
only  to  take  off  the  spectacles  through  which  we 
are  accustomed  to  view  the  life  of  the  peasants, 
to  see  how  their  misery  is  connected  with  our 
pleasures,  and  there  you  are. 

MiTROFAN. 

But  the  remedy  is  not  to  ruin  our  own  lives. 

Stephen. 

Isn't  it  extraordinary  how  Mitrofan  Ermilovich 
and  I,  standing  at  opposite  poles,  agree  on  some 
points?  Those  are  my  exact  words:  not  to  ruin 
our  own  lives. 

Boris. 

It's  perfectly  simple.  You  both  want  a  pleas- 
ant life,  and  so  you  want  to  adopt  a  plan  of  living 
that  will  ensure  it.  You  (turning  to  Stephen) 
would  like  to  preserve  present  conditions,  and 
Mitrofan  Ermilovich  wants  new  ones. 

(LuBA  speaks  under  her  breath  to 
TONIA.  TONIA  goes  to  the  piano 
and  plays  a  Chopin  Nocturne.  All 
are  silent.) 

Stephen. 
That  is  beautiful.     That  solves  all  problems. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  119 

Boris. 

It  only  obscures  them,  and  delays  their  solution. 
{During  the  music  enter  silently 
Marie  Ivanovna  and  the  Princess. 
They  sit  down  and  listen.  Before  the 
end  of  the  Nocturne  carriage  bells  are 
heard.) 

LUBA. 

Oh,  that  is  Auntie  ! 

{Goes  to  meet  her.  Music  con- 
tinues. Knter  Alexandra  Ivan- 
ovna and  a  lawyer  and  Father 
Gerasim  with  his  pectoral  cross. 
All  present  rise.) 

Father  Gerasim. 

Pray  continue.      It  is  very  pleasant. 

( The  Princess  and  Father 
Vasily  go  up  to  him  and  ask  his 
blessing. ) 

Alexandra. 

I  have  done  what  I  said  I  would.  I  found 
Father  Gerasim  and  persuaded  him  to  come  with 
me.  He  is  going  to  Kursk.  So  I  have  done  my 
part.  And  here  is  the  lawyer.  He  has  the 
papers  all  ready  to  sign. 


I20  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Marie. 

Would  you  not  like  to  have  some  luncheon? 

( The  Lawyer  lays    his  papers   on 
the  table  and  goes.) 
I  am  very  grateful  to  Father  Gerasim. 

Father  Gerasim. 

What  else  could  I  do?     It  was  not  on  my  way, 
but  my  Christian  duty  bade  me  come. 

(Princess  whispers  to  the  young 
people.  They  all  talk  among  them- 
selves, and  go  out  on  the  veranda, 
except  Boris.  Father  Vasily  rises 
to  go.) 

Father  Gerasim. 
Stay  with  us.     You  as  a  spiritual  father,  and 
the  pastor  here,  may  derive  some  benefit  and  be 
of  use.     Stay,  if  Marie  Ivanovna  does  not  object. 

Marie. 
Oh,  no.     Father  Vasily  is  like  one  of  the  family 
to  me.     I  consulted  him  as  well,  but  being  young, 
he  lacks  authority. 

Father  Gerasim. 
Undoubtedly,  undoubtedly. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  121 

Alexandra. 

{approaching  him.)  Now,  you  see,  Father 
Gerasim,  you  are  the  only  one  that  can  help  us  and 
persuade  him  to  see  reason.  He  is  a  clever  man 
and  a  learned  man;  but  you  know  yourself,  learn- 
ing can  only  do  harm.  He  does  not  see  clearly 
somehow.  He  persists  in  saying  that  the  Chris- 
tian command  is  to  have  no  possessions.  But  is 
that  possible? 

Father  Gerasim. 
It  is   all   a   snare,    intellectual   pride,    self-will. 
The  fathers  of  the  Church  have  settled  that  ques- 
tion adequately.     But  how  did  it  all  come  about? 

Marie. 
To  be  quite  frank  with  you,  I  must  say  that  when 
we  married  he  was  indifferent  to  religious  ques- 
tions, and  we  lived  the  first  twenty  years  of  our 
life  happily.  Then  he  began  to  think  about 
these  things.  His  sister  may,  perhaps,  have  in- 
fluenced him,  or  his  reading.  But  at  any  rate  he 
began  to  think,  to  read  the  Gospel,  and  then  all 
at  once  he  became  very  pious,  going  to  church, 
visiting  monks,  and  then  he  suddenly  stopped 
all  that,  and  changed  his  life  completely.  Now 
he  does  everything  for  himself,  he  permits  none 
of  the  servants  to  do  anything  for  him,  and, 
worst  of  all,  he  is  giving  away  all  his  property. 


122  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Yesterday  he  gave  away  his  forest  and  the  land 
attached  to  it.  I  am  afraid.  I  have  seven  chil- 
dren. Do  talk  to  him.  I'll  go  and  ask  whether 
he  will  see  you.      (Exit.) 

Father  Gerasim. 
Yes,  nowadays,  many  are  leaving  the  Church. 
What  about  the  property?     Does  it  belong  to  him 
or  his  wife? 

Alexandra. 
It  is  his  own.     That  is  the  worst  of  it. 

Father  Gerasim. 

And  what  is  his  rank. 

Princess. 

Not  a  high  one.  I  think  he  is  a  captain.  He 
has  been  in  the  army. 

Father  Gerasim. 

Many  are  leaving  the  Church  nowadays.  In 
Odessa  there  was  a  lady  who  became  infatuated 
with  spiritualism,  and  she  began  to  do  a  lot  of 
harm.  But  finally  God  prevailed,  and  brought 
her  again  within  the  Church. 

Princess. 

Now,  father,  you  must  understand.  My  son 
is  going  to  marry  their  daughter.      I  have  given 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  123 

my  consent.  But  the  girl  is  used  to  a  life  of  lux- 
ury, and  she  must  have  means  of  her  own  so  that 
the  entire  burden  may  not  fall  upon  my  son.  I 
must  say  he  works  hard,  and  he  is  a  remarkable 
young  man. 

{Enter    Marie     Ivanovna     and 
Nicholas  Ivanovich.) 

Nicholas. 

How  do  you  do,  Princess?  How  do  you  do? 
Pardon  me  —  I  do  not  know  your  name.  ( To 
Father  Gerasim.) 

Father  Gerasim. 
Do  you  not  wish  for  a  blessing? 

Nicholas. 
No,  I  do  not. 

Father  Gerasim. 

I  am  Gerasim  Feodorovich.  Pleased  to  meet 
you. 

{Footman  brings  refreshments  and 
wine.) 
It  is  fine  weather,  and  very  favourable  for  har- 
vesting. 

Nicholas. 

I  understand  you  have  come  on  the  invitation 
of  Alexandra   Ivanovna   to   convince   me   of   my 


124  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

errors,  and  to  lead  me  into  the  right  way.  If 
that  is  the  case,  do  not  let  us  beat  about  the  bush. 
Let  us  come  to  the  point.  I  do  not  deny  that  I 
disagree  with  the  teaching  of  the  Church.  I  used 
to  believe  in  it,  but  I  have  ceased  to  do  so. 
Nevertheless,  I  long  with  my  whole  soul  to  be  in 
harmony  with  the  truth,  and  if  you  can  show  it 
to  me,  I  will  accept  it  without  hesitation. 

Father  Gerasim. 

How  can  you  say  you  do  not  believe  the  teach- 
ing of  the  Church?  What  are  we  to  believe  if 
not  the  Church? 

Nicholas. 
God,  and  his  law,  given  to  us  in  the  Gospel. 

Father  Gerasim. 
The  Church  instructs  us  in  that  very  law. 

Nicholas. 

If  that  were  so,  I  would  believe  the  Church. 
But  the  Church  teaches  the  very  opposite. 

Father  Gerasim. 

The  Church  cannot  teach  the  opposite,  for  it  is 
founded  by  our  Lord.  It  is  said,  "  I  give  you  the 
power,  and  the  Gates  of  Hell  shall  not  prevail 
against  it." 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  125 

Nicholas. 

That  refers  to  something  quite  different.  But, 
supposing  that  Christ  did  found  a  church.  How 
do  I  know  that  it  is  your  Church? 

Father  Gerasim. 

Because  it  is  said,  "  Where  two  or  three  are 
gathered  together  in  My  name  — " 

Nicholas. 

That  does  not  apply  either,  and  does  not  prove 
anything. 

Father  Gerasim. 

How  can  you  renounce  the  Church,  when  the 
Church  alone  possesses  grace? 

Nicholas. 
I   did    not    renounce    the    Church   until    I   was 
wholly  convinced  that  it  supports  all  that  is  con- 
trary to  Christianity. 

Father  Gerasim. 

The  Church  cannot  err,  because  she  alone  pos- 
sesses the  truth.  Those  err  who  leave  her.  The 
Church  is  sacred. 

Nicholas. 

But  I  have  told  you  I  do  not  admit  that,  be- 
cause the  Gospel  says,  "  Ye  shall  know  them  by 


126  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

their  fruits."  And  I  perceive  that  the  Church 
gives  her  sanction  to  oath-taking  and  murder  and 
executions. 

Father  Gerasim. 

The  Church  admits  and  consecrates  the  powers 
instituted  by  God. 

(During  the  conversation  enter  one 
by  one  LuBA,  Lisa,  Stephen, 
ToNiA,  and  Boris,  who  sit  or  stand 
and  listen.) 

Nicholas. 
I  know  that  not  only  killing  but  anger  is  for- 
bidden by  the  Gospel.  And  the  Church  gives  its 
blessing  to  the  army.  The  Gospel  says,  "  Do  not 
swear,"  and  the  Church  administers  oaths.  The 
Gospel  says  — 

Father  Gerasim. 
Excuse  me  —  when  Pilate  said,  "I  ask  you  in 
the  name  of  the  living  God,"  Christ  accepted  the 
oath,  and  said,  "  Yes,  that  I  am." 

Nicholas. 
Oh,    what   are   you    saying?     That    Is    simply 
ridiculous! 

Father  Gerasim. 
That  is  why  the   Church   does   not  permit  in- 
dividuals   to    Interpret    the    Gospel.      She    would 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  127 

preserve  men  from  error,  and  she  cares  for  them 
as  a  mother  for  her  children.  She  gives  them  an 
interpretation  befitting  the  powers  of  their  mind. 
No!  Allow  me  to  finish.  The  Church  does  not 
give  her  children  a  burden  heavier  than  they  can 
bear.  She  requires  only  that  they  fulfil  the  com- 
mandments. Love,  do  not  kill,  do  not  steal,  do 
not  commit  adultery. 

Nicholas. 
Yes.  Do  not  kill  me,  do  not  steal  from  me 
what  I  have  stolen.  We  have  all  robbed  the 
people,  have  stolen  their  land,  and  then  we  in- 
stituted the  law  against  stealing.  And  the  Church 
sanctions  it  all. 

Father  Gerasim. 
That  is  all  a  snare,  mere  spiritual  pride  speak- 
ing in  you.     You  want  to  show  off  your  intellect. 

Nicholas. 
Not  at  all!  I  merely  ask  you,  how,  according 
to  the  law  of  Christ,  am  I  to  behave  now,  when 
I  have  recognised  the  sin  of  robbing  the  people 
and  appropriating  their  land!  What  must  I  do? 
Go  on  holding  my  land,  exploiting  the  labour  of 
the  starving  peasants,  just  for  this?  {He  points 
to  the  servant  who  is  bringing  in  lunch  and  wine.) 
Or  am  I  to  give  back  the  land  to  those  who  have 
been  robbed  by  my  ancestors? 


128  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Father  Gerasim. 

You  must  act  as  a  son  of  the  Church  should  act. 
You  have  a  family,  children,  and  must  bring  them 
up  as  befits  their  station. 

•Nicholas. 
Why  must  I? 

Father  Gerasim. 

Because  God  has  placed  you  in  that  station. 
i\nd  if  you  want  to  do  charitable  acts,  then  per- 
form them  by  giving  away  part  of  your  fortune, 
and  by  visiting  the  poor. 

/ 
Nicholas. 

Then  why  was  it  said  that  the  rich  man  could 
not  enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven? 

Father  Gerasim. 
It  was  said,  if  he  desired  to  be  perfect. 

Nicholas. 

But  I  do  want  to  be  perfect.  It  is  said  in  the 
Gospel,  "  Be  ye  perfect  even  as  your  Father  in 
Heaven  is  perfect." 

Father  Gerasim. 
But  one  must  understand  to  what  It  applies. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  129 

Nicholas. 

That  is  exactly  what  I  am  trying  to  understand, 
and  all  that  was  said  in  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount 
is  simple  and  clear. 

Father  Gerasim. 
It  is  all  spiritual  pride. 

Nicholas. 

Why  pride,  if  it  is  said  that  what  is  hidden  from 
the  wise  shall  be  revealed  to  babes? 

Father  Gerasim. 
It  will  be  revealed  to  the  humble  not  to  the 
proud. 

Nicholas. 
But  who  is  proud?  Is  it  I,  who  think  that  I 
am  like  the  rest,  and  therefore  must  live  like  the 
rest,  live  by  my  labour,  and  in  the  same  poverty 
as  all  my  brothers,  or  is  it  they  who  consider 
themselves  apart  from  the  rest,  as  the  priests  who 
think  they  know  the  whole  truth,  and  cannot 
err,  and  interpret  the  words  of  Christ  to  suit 
themselves? 

Father  Gerasim. 
(offended.)      I  beg  your  pardon,  Nicholas  Tvano- 
vich,  I  have  not  come  to  argue  as  to  who  is  right. 


I30  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

I  did  not  come  to  be  lectured.  I  complied  with 
the  wish  of  Alexandra  Ivanovna,  and  came  to  have 
a  talk.  But  you  appear  to  know  everything  bet- 
ter than  I,  so  the  conversation  had  better  cease. 
But  I  beseech  you  for  the  last  time,  in  the  name 
of  God,  to  reconsider  the  matter.  You  are  ter- 
ribly wrong,  and  will  lose  your  own  soul. 

Marie. 
Won't  you  come  and  have  something  to  eat? 

Father  Gerasim. 

Thank  you  very  much.      {Accepts.) 

{Exit  with  Anna  Ivanovna.) 

Marie. 
{to   Father  Vasily.)      What   is   the   result   of 
your  talk? 

Father  Vasily. 
Well,   my  opinion   is   that  Nicholas   Ivanovich 
spoke  truly,  and  Father  Gerasim  brought  no  argu- 
ments against  what  he  said. 

Princess. 
He  was  not  allowed  to  speak.     And  then  he 
did  not  like  it.     It  became  a  sort  of  wordy  tour- 
nament, with  everybody  listening.     He  withdrew 
out  of  modesty. 


SHINES  IX  DARKNESS  131 

Boris. 

It  was  not  at  all  from  modesty.  Everything  he 
said  was  false,  and  he  obviously  had  nothing  more 
to  say. 

Princess. 

Oh,  I  see.  With  your  usual  fickleness  you  are 
beginning  to  agree  with  Nicholas  Ivanovich.  If 
those  are  your  opinions  you  ought  not  to  marry. 

Boris. 

I  only  say  that  truth  is  truth.  I  cannot  help 
saying  it. 

Princess. 

You  are  the  last  person  who  ought  to  speak 
like  that. 

Boris. 
Why? 

Princess. 

Because  you  are  poor,  and  have  nothing  to  give 
away.  However,  the  whole  affair  is  no  concern 
of  ours.      (Exit.) 

(After  her  all  except  Nicholas 
and  Marie  Ivanovna  go  out.) 

Nicholas. 

(sits   deep   in   thought  and  smiles   meditatively.) 
Masha,  what  is  all  this   about?     Why  did  you 


132  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

ask  that  miserable,  misguided  man  to  come  here? 
Why  should  that  noisy  woman  and  this  priest  take 
part  in  the  most  intimate  questions  of  our  life? 
Couldn't  we  settle  all  our  affairs  between  our- 
selves? 

Marie. 

But  what  can  I  do  if  you  wish  to  leave  our 
children  with  nothing?  I  cannot  sit  still  and  let 
you  do  that.  You  know  it  is  not  greed  —  I  do 
not  want  anything  for  myself. 

Nicholas. 
I  know,  I  know.  I  trust  you.  But  the  mis- 
fortune is  that  you  do  not  believe.  I  don't  mean 
that  you  don't  believe  the  truth.  I  know  you  see 
it;  but  you  cannot  bring  yourself  to  trust  it.  You 
do  not  trust  the  truth,  and  you  do  not  trust  me. 
You  would  rather  trust  the  crowd  —  the  princess 
and  the  rest. 

Marie. 
I  trust  you;  I  have  always  trusted  you.     But 
when  you  want  to  make  our  children  beggars  — 

Nicholas. 

That  proves  that  you  do  not  trust  me.  Do 
you  imagine  T  have  not  struggled  and  have  not  had 
fears?  But  now  I  am  perfectly  convinced,  not  only 
that  It  can  be  done,  but  must  be  done,  and  that 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  133 

this  is  the  only  right  thing  to  do  for  the  children. 
You  always  say  that  if  it  were  not  for  the  children 
you  would  follow  me.  And  I  say  that  if  it  were 
not  for  the  children  you  might  go  on  living  as  you 
do.  We  should  only  be  injuring  ourselves.  As  it 
is  we  injure  them. 

Marie. 
But  what  can  I  do  if  I  don't  understand? 

Nicholas. 
And  I  —  what  am  I  to  do  ?  I  know  why  you 
sent  for  that  poor  creature  dressed  up  in  his  cas- 
sock and  his  cross,  and  I  know  why  Aline  brought 
the  lawyer.  You  want  me  to  transfer  the  estate 
to  your  name.  I  cannot  do  that.  You  know  I 
have  loved  you  during  the  twenty  years  we  have 
been  married.  I  love  you,  and  I  have  every  wish 
for  your  welfare,  and  that  is  why  I  cannot  sign 
that  transfer.  If  I  am  to  make  over  the  estate, 
then  it  must  be  to  those  from  whom  it  came  —  the 
peasants.  I  cannot  give  it  to  you.  I  must  give  it 
to  them.  I  am  glad  the  lawyer  has  come.  I 
must  do  it. 

Marie. 

This  is  dreadful!  Why  are  you  so  cruel?  If 
you  think  it  a  sin  to  hold  property,  give  it  to  me. 
{Weeps.) 


134  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Nicholas. 

You  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying.  If  I 
gave  it  to  you  I  could  not  go  on  living  with  you. 
I  should  have  to  go  away.  I  cannot  continue  to 
live  in  these  conditions,  and  see  the  peasants 
squeezed  dry,  whether  it  is  in  your  name  or  mine. 
I  cannot  see  them  put  in  prison.      So  choose. 

Marie. 

How  cruel  you  are!  This  is  not  Christianity; 
it  is  wicked.  I  cannot  live  as  you  want  me  to  do. 
I  cannot  take  things  from  my  children  to  give  to 
strangers,  and  for  that  you  would  forsake  me ! 
Well,  go.  I  see  that  you  no  longer  love  me,  and, 
indeed,  I  know  the  reason. 

Nicholas. 
Very  well,  I  will  sign  it.     But,  Masha,  you  are 
asking  the  impossible  of  me.      (Goes  to  the  table 
and  signs.)      It  is  you  who  desired  that.     I  can- 
not live  so.      {Rushes  away  holding  his  head.) 

Marie. 
{calling.)      Luba!     Aline!      {They  enter.)      He 
has  signed  —  and  gone.     What  am  I  to  do?     He 
said  he  would  go  away,  and  he  will.     Go  to  him. 

Luba. 

He  is  gone. 


ACT  III 

Scene  I 

Scene  is  laid  in  Moscow.  Large  room,  and  in 
it  a  carpenter's  bench,  a  table  with  papers,  a  book- 
case. Boards  lean  against  and  cover  the  mirror 
and  the  pictures.  Nicholas  Ivanovich  is 
working  at  the  bench;  a  carpenter  is  planing. 

Nicholas. 
{taking  a  finished  board  from  the  bench.)      Is 
that  all  right? 

Carpenter. 

[adjusts  the  plane.)      It's  not  up  to  much.     Go  at 
It!     Don't  be  afraid.     Like  that. 

Nicholas. 
I  wish  I  could,  but  I  cannot  manage  it. 

Carpenter. 
But  why  do  you  go  in   for  carpentering,   sir? 
There  are  so  many  in  our  trade  now,  you  can't 
make  a  living  at  it. 

Nicholas. 
(continues  working.)      I  am  ashamed  to  live  In 
idleness. 

135 


136  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Carpenter. 

But  that's  your  lot  In  life,  sir.  God  has  given 
you  property. 

Nicholas. 

That  is  just  the  point.  I  do  not  believe  God 
gave  anything  of  the  kind.  Men  have  amassed 
goods  that  they  have  taken  from  their  brothers. 

Carpenter. 

{wondering.)  That  may  all  be  very  true.  But 
still  you  need  not  work. 

Nicholas. 

I  understand  that  it  seems  strange  to  you  that 
In  this  house,  where  there  is  so  much  superfluity,  I 
still  wish  to  earn  my  living. 

Carpenter. 

(laughing.)  Well,  that's  just  like  you  gentlemen. 
There's  nothing  you  don't  want  to  do.  Now  just 
smooth  off  that  plank. 

Nicholas. 

Perhaps  you  will  not  believe  me  and  will  laugh 
at  me  when  I  say  that  I  used  to  live  that  way  and 
was  not  ashamed  of  It,  but  now  that  I  believe 
the  teaching  of  Christ  that  we  are  all  brothers,  I 
am  ashamed  to  live  that  life. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  137 

Carpenter. 
If  you  are  ashamed  give  away  your  property. 

Nicholas. 
I  wanted  to,   but   I   did  not  succeed.      I   have 
handed  it  over  to  my  wife. 

A  Voice. 
{from  outside.)      Father,  may  I  come  in? 

Nicholas. 

Of  course  you  may!     You  may  always  come 
in. 

{Enter  LuBA.) 

Luba. 
Good-morning,   Yakov. 

Carpenter. 
Good-morning,  miss. 

Luba. 

{to  her  father.)  Boris  has  left  for  the  regiment. 
I'm  so  afraid  he  will  do  or  say  something  he  ought 
not  to.     What  do  you  think? 

Nicholas. 

What  can  I  think?     He  will  act  according  to 
his  conscience. 


138  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

LUBA. 

But  that's  awful.  He  has  only  such  a  short 
time  to  serve  now,  and  he  may  go  and  ruin  his 
life. 

Nicholas. 
He  did  well  in  not  coming  to  me.  He  knows 
I  cannot  tell  him  anything  beyond  what  he  knows 
himself.  He  told  me  himself  that  he  asked  for 
his  discharge  because  he  saw  that  there  could  not 
be  a  more  lawless,  cruel,  brutal  occupation  than 
that  which  is  based  on  murder.  And  that  there 
is  nothing  more  humiliating  than  to  obey  implicitly 
any  man  who  happens  to  be  his  superior  in  rank. 
He  knows  all  this. 

LUBA. 

That  is  precisely  what  I'm  afraid  of.  He 
knows  of  all  that  and  he'll  be  sure  to  do  some- 
thing. 

Nicholas. 

His  conscience,  that  God  within  him,  must  de- 
cide that.  If  he  had  come  to  me  I  should  have 
advised  him  only  one  thing,  not  to  act  on  the  dic- 
tates of  reason,  but  only  when  his  whole  being 
demanded  it.  There's  nothing  worse  than  that. 
There  was  I,  desiring  to  do  Christ's  bidding, 
which  is  to  leave  father,  wife,  children  —  and 
follow  Him,     And  I  was  on  the  point  of  going. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  139 

And  how  did  that  end?  It  ended  by  my  coming 
back  and  living  in  town,  with  you,  in  luxury. 
That  was  because  I  wanted  to  do  something  be- 
yond my  strength,  and  it  ended  in  placing  me  in  a 
stupid  and  humiliating  position.  I  want  to  live 
simply  —  to  work  —  and  in  these  surroundings, 
with  footmen  and  hall  porters,  it  becomes  a  pose. 
There,  I  see  Yakov  NIkanorovich  is  laughing  at 
me. 

Carpenter. 
Why    should    I    laugh?     You    pay   me  —  you 
give  me  tea  —  I  am  very  grateful  to  you. 

LUBA. 

Don't    you    think    I    had    better    go    to    him, 
father? 

Nicholas. 
My  darling,  I  know  how  hard  it  is  for  you  — 
how  terrible  !  But  you  ought  not  to  be  frightened. 
I  am  a  man  who  understands  life.  No  harm  can 
come  of  it.  All  that  seems  to  you  bad,  really 
brings  joy  to  the  heart.  You  must  understand 
that  a  man  who  chooses  that  path  has  had  to  make 
a  choice.  There  are  circumstances  in  which  the 
scales  balance  evenly  between  God  and  the  devil. 
And  at  that  moment  God's  greatest  work  is  being 
done.  Any  interference  from  without  is  very 
dangerous,  •  and   only   brings   suffering.     It   is   as 


140  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

though  a  man  were  making  a  great  effort  to  bear 
down  the  scale,  and  the  touch  of  a  finger  may 
break  his  back. 

LUBA. 

But  why  suffer? 

Nicholas. 

It  is  the  same  thing  as  though  a  mother  should 
say,  "  Why  suffer?"  But  a  child  cannot  be  born 
without  pain.  And  so  it  is  with  spiritual  birth. 
I  can  only  say  one  thing — Boris  is  a  true  Chris- 
tian, and  therefore  free.  And  if  you  cannot  be 
like  him,  if  you  cannot  believe  God  as  he  does, 
then  believe  God  through  him. 

Marie. 
(outside  the  door.)      May  I  come  in? 

Nicholas. 

Certainly  —  always.  Quite  a  meeting  here  to- 
day. 

Marie. 

Our  priest  has  come  —  Vasily  Ermilovlch. 
He  is  on  his  way  to  the  bishop  to  resign  his  cure. 

Nicholas. 

Not  really.  Is  he  here?  Luba,  call  him.  He 
will  certainly  want  to  see  me. 

{Exk  Luba.) 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  141 

Marie. 

I  came  to  tell  you  about  Vania.  He  is  behav- 
ing so  badly  and  will  not  study,  and  I  am  sure  he 
will  not  pass.  I  have  tried  to  talk  to  him  but  he 
is  impertinent, 

Nicholas. 

Masha  —  you  know  I  do  not  sympathise  with 
your  mode  of  life  and  your  ideas  of  education. 
It  is  an  awful  question  whether  I  have  the  right  to 
look  on  and  see  my  children  ruined. 

Marie. 

Then  you  must  offer  a  definite  substitute. 
What  do  you  propose? 

Nicholas. 
I  cannot  say —  I  can  only  tell  you  that  the  first 
thing  is  to  get  rid  of  this  corrupting  luxury, 

Marie. 

And  make  peasants  of  them!  That  I  cannot 
agree  to. 

Nicholas. 

Then  do  not  ask  me.  All  that  upsets  you  now 
is  inevitable. 

{Enter  Father  Vasily  and  em- 
braces Nicholas  Ivanovich.) 
Then  you  have  really  done  it! 


142  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Father  Vasily. 
I  cannot  go  on  any  longer ! 

Nicholas. 
I  did  not  expect  it  would  come  so  soon. 

Father  Vasily. 

It  had  to  come.  In  my  vocation  one  cannot 
remain  indifferent.  I  had  to  confess,  to  adminis- 
ter the  sacrament;  how  could  I,  knowing  it  to  be 
false ! 

Nicholas. 

And  what  will  happen  now? 

Father  Vasily. 
I  am  going  to  the  bishop  to  be  examined.  I 
am  afraid  I  shall  be  exiled  to  the  Solavetsky  Mon- 
astery. I  thought  at  one  time  of  running  away 
and  going  abroad,  of  asking  you  to  help  me,  but 
then  I  gave  up  the  idea.  It  would  be  cowardly. 
The  only  thing  is  —  my  wife  — 

Nicholas. 
Where  is  she? 

Father  Vasily. 

She  has  gone  to  her  father.  My  mother-in- 
law  came  and  took  away  our  son.  That  hurt.  I 
wanted  so  much  —  {He  stops,  hardly  restrain- 
ing his  tears.) 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  143 

Nicholas. 

Well,    God   help   you.     Are   you   staying  here 
with  us? 

{Enter    Alexandra     Ivanovna 

with  a  letter.) 

Alexandra. 

A  special  messenger  has  brought  this  for  you, 
Nicholas    Ivanovich.     How    do    you    do,    Father 

Vasily? 

Father  Vastly. 

I  am  no  longer  Father  Vasily,  Alexandra  Ivan- 
ovna. 

Alexandra. 

Really?     Why? 

Father  Vastly. 

I  have  discovered  that  we  do  not  believe  In  the 
right  way. 

Alexandra. 
Oh  dear,  oh  dear,  how  sinful !     You  are  a  good 
man,  but  what  errors  you  do  fall  into.      It  is  all 
Nicholas  Ivanovich's  doing. 

Father  Vastly. 
Not  Nicholas  Ivanovich's,  but  Christ's. 

Alexandra. 
Oh,   stop,   stop!     Why  leave  the   fold  of  the 


144  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Orthodox  Church?     I  know  you  mean  well,  but 
you  are  ruining  your  own  soul. 

Nicholas. 
(to  himself.)      I  expected  this.     What  am  I  to 
do? 

Alexandra. 
What  is  it? 

Nicholas. 
{reading.)  It  is  from  the  Princess.  This  is 
what  she  writes:  "  Boris  has  refused  to  serve  and 
has  been  arrested.  You  have  been  his  ruin.  It 
is  your  duty  to  save  him.  He  is  at  the  Kroutitsk 
Barracks."  Yes,  I  must  go  to  him,  if  only  they 
will  let  me  see  him.  {He  takes  off  his  apron,  puts 
his  coat  on,  and  goes  out.)      {Exit  all.) 


Scene  II 

Office.  A  Clerk  sitting.  Sentry  pacing  up 
and  down  at  opposite  door.  Enter  General 
with  his  aide-de-camp.  Clerk  jumps  up.  Sen- 
try salutes. 

General'. 

Where  is  the  colonel? 

Clerk. 
He  was  asked  to  go  to  see  the  recruit,  your 
excellency. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  145 

General. 
Very  well.     Ask  him  to  come  here. 

Clerk. 
Yes,  your  excellency. 

General. 
What  are  you  copying  there?     The  deposition 
of  the  recruit? 

Clerk. 
Yes,  your  excellency. 

General. 
Give  it  to  me. 

(Clerk  gives  it  and  goes  out.) 

General. 

{giving    paper     to     Aide-de-camp.)      Read     it, 
please. 

Aide-de-camp. 

(reading.)  "To  the  questions  which  were  put 
to  me:  (i)  Why  I  refused  to  take  the  oath;  (2) 
Why  I  refused  to  carry  out  the  demands  of  the 
government;  and  (3)  what  made  me  utter  words 
offensive  not  only  to  the  military  body,  but  to  the 
highest  authority,  I  answer:  to  the  first  question: 
I  will  not  take  the  oath  because  I  profess  the 
teaching  of  Christ.  In  His  teaching  Christ 
clearly  forbids  it,  as  in  the  Gospel,  Matt.  v.  33- 
37,  and  the  Epistle  of  James,  v.  12." 


146  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

General. 

There  they  are,  discussing  and  putting  their 
own  interpretations  on  it. 

Aide-de-camp. 

(continuing.)  "  It  is  said  in  the  Gospel  Matt.  v. 
37,  '  Let  your  communication  be,  Yea,  yea;  Nay, 
nay:  for  whatsoever  is  more  than  these  cometh  of 
evil,'  and  James,  v.  12  :  '  But  above  all  things,  my 
brethren,  swear  not,  neither  by  heaven,  neither  by 
the  earth,  neither  by  any  other  oath;  but  let  your 
yea  be  yea;  and  your  nay,  nay;  lest  ye  fall  into 
condemnation.' 

"  But  even  if  there  were  not  such  explicit  pro- 
hibition of  swearing  in  the  Gospel,  I  would  not 
swear  to  fulfil  the  will  of  men,  for  according  to 
Christ's  teaching  I  am  bound  to  fulfil  the  will  of 
God,   which   may  not   coincide   with   the   will   of 


men." 


General. 

There  they  are,  discussing!     If  I  had  my  way, 
such  things  would  not  occur. 

Aide-de-camp. 

(reading.)  "And  I  refuse  to  comply  with  the 
demands  of  men  calling  themselves  the  govern- 
ment because  —  " 

General. 
What  impudence ! 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  147 

Aide-de-camp. 

"  Because  these  demands  are  criminal  and 
wicked.  I  am  required  to  enter  the  army,  to  be 
prepared  and  instructed  how  to  murder.  This  is 
forbidden  by  the  Old  as  well  as  by  the  New  Tes- 
tament, and,  moreover,  by  my  conscience.  As  to 
the  third  question  —  " 

{Enter  COLONEL  with  Clerk, 
General  shakes  hands  ivith  him.) 

Colonel. 
You  are  reading  the  deposition,? 

General. 
Yes.     Unpardonably  impudent.      Continue. 

Aide-de-camp. 
(reading.)  "  As  to  the  third  question,  what  in- 
duced me  to  speak  offensively  to  the  Council.  I 
answer,  that  I  was  led  by  my  desire  to  serve  God 
and  to  denounce  shams  which  are  perpetrated  in 
His  name.  This  desire  I  hope  to  preserve  while 
I  live.     That  is  why  —  " 

General. 

Oh,  enough  of  that  rubbish !  The  question  is, 
how  to  root  it  all  out,  and  prevent  him  from  cor- 
rupting our  men.  {To  Colonel.)  Have  you 
spoken  to  him? 


148  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Colonel. 

I  have  been  talking  to  him  all  this  time.  I  tried 
to  appeal  to  his  conscience,  to  make  him  under- 
stand that  he  was  only  making  matters  worse  for 
himself  and  that  he  would  not  achieve  anything 
by  such  methods.  I  spoke  to  him  about  his  fam- 
ily. He  was  very  excited,  but  he  stuck  to  his 
words. 

General. 

It  is  idle  to  say  much  to  him.  We  are  soldiers; 
men  of  actions,  not  words.  Have  him  brought 
here. 

(Exit  Aide-de-camp  and  Clerk.) 

General. 

(sitting  down.)  No,  colonel.  You  were  wrong." 
Such  fellows  must  be  dealt  with  in  quite  another 
fashion.  Strong  measures  are  needed  to  cut  off 
the  offending  member.  One  foul  sheep  ruins  the 
whole  flock.  Sentimentality  has  no  place  here. 
His  being  a  prince  and  having  a  mother  and  a 
fiancee  does  not  concern  us.  There  is  a  soldier  be- 
fore us  and  we  must  fulfil  the  will  of  the  Tsar. 

Colonel. 

I  only  thought  it  would  be  easier  to  influence 
him  by  persuasion. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  149 

General. 

Not  at  all.  Firmness,  only  firmness.  I  had  a 
case  like  this  once  before.  He  must  be  made  to 
feel  that  he  Is  nothing,  that  he  is  a  grain  of  sand 
under  the  wheel  of  a  chariot,  and  that  he  cannot 
impede  its  progress. 

Colonel. 
Well,  we  can  try. 

General. 
{beginning  to  get  angry.)  It  is  not  a  question  of 
trying.  I  have  nothing  to  try.  I  have  served  my 
sovereign  for  forty-four  years,  have  given  and  am 
giving  my  life  to  the  service,  and  suddenly  a  boy 
comes  and  wants  to  teach  me,  and  quotes  Bible 
texts.  Let  him  talk  that  nonsense  to  the  priests. 
To  me  he  is  either  a  soldier,  or  a  prisoner.  That's 
the  end  of  it. 

{Enter  Boris  under  escort  of  two 
soldiers.  Aide-de-camp  follows  him 
in.) 

General. 

{pointing  to  Boris  with  his  finger.)      Place  him 
there. 

Boris. 
No   necessity   whatever    to    "  place  "    me    any- 
where.    I  will  stand  or  sit  where  I  please,  for  as  to 
your  authority  over  me,  I  do  not  — 


I50  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

General. 

Silence  !     You  don't  recognise  my  authority  — 
I'll  make  you  recognise  it! 

Boris. 
(sits  down.)      How  wrong  of  you  to  shout  like 
that! 

General. 

Lift  him  up  and  make  him  stand! 

{Soldiers  raise  BORIS  up.) 

Boris. 
That  you  can  do.     You  can  kill  me,  but  you  can- 
not force  me  to  obey  you. 

General. 
Silence,   I  say !      Listen  to  what  I  say  to  you. 

Boris. 
I  do  not  in  the  least  wish  to  hear  what  you  say. 

General. 
He  is  mad.     He  must  be  sent  to  the  hospital 
to  test  his  sanity.     That's  the  only  thing  to  do 
with  him. 

Colonel. 

We  have  orders  to  send  him  to  the  Gendarmerie 
Department  to  be  questioned. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  151 

General. 
Very  well  —  do  so.      But  put  him  into  uniform. 

Colonel. 
He  refuses  to  wear  it. 

General. 
Then  tie  his  hands  and  feet.  (To  Boris.) 
Now  listen  to  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you.  It  is 
a  matter  of  perfect  indifference  to  me  what  be- 
comes of  you.  But  for  your  own  sake  I  would 
advise  you  to  think  it  over.  You  will  only  rot 
in  the  fortress,  and  be  of  no  use  to  any  one.  Give 
it  up.  You  were  excited,  and  so  was  I.  (Slap- 
ping him  on  the  shoulder.)  Go  —  take  your  oath 
and  drop  all  that  nonsense.  ( To  the  Aide-de- 
camp.) Is  the  priest  here?  (To  Boris.) 
Well?  (Boris  is  silent.)  Why  don't  you  an- 
swer? I  assure  you  I'm  advising  you  for  your  own 
good.  The  weakest  goes  to  the  wall.  You  can 
keep  your  own  ideas  and  merely  serve  your  time. 
We  won't  be  hard  on  you.     Well? 

Boris. 

I  have  nothing  more  to  say.     I  have  said  every- 
thing. 

General. 
Just  now  you  said  that  there  were  such  and  such 
verses   in   the   Gospel.      Surely   the   priests   know 


152  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

that?  You'd  better  talk  that  over  with  the  priest, 
and  then  think  it  over.  That's  surely  the  best 
way.  Good-bye.  I  hope  to  meet  you  again  and 
be  able  to  congratulate  you  on  your  entrance  into 
the  service  of  the  Tsar.      Send  the  priest  here. 

{Exit    General    with    Colonel 
and  Aide-de-camp.) 

Boris. 

{to  soldiers  and  Clerk.)  You  see  how  they  talk. 
They  are  perfectly  aware  themselves  that  they  are 
deceiving  you.  Don't  give  in  to  them.  Throw 
down  your  arms.  Go  away.  Let  them  flog  you 
to  death  in  their  disciplinary  battalions.  Even 
that  is  better  than  to  be  the  slaves  of  these  im- 
postors ! 

Clerk. 
No,   that's   impossible.     How   can   we   get   on 
without  the  army?     It  is  impossible. 

Boris. 

We  must  not  reason  in  that  way.     We  must  do 
just  as  God  desires.     And  God  desires  us  to  — 

Soldier. 

Then  why  do  they  call  it  the  "  Christ-serving 
Army?" 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  153 

Boris. 
That  is  not  said  anywhere.      It's  the  invention 
of  these  impostors. 

Soldier. 

How  so  ?     The  bishops  must  know. 

{Enter     Police     Officer     with 
Stenographer.) 

Police  Officer. 
{to   Clerk.)      Is  Prince   Cheremshanov  the  re- 
cruit here? 

Clerk. 
Yes,  sir.     There  he  is. 

Police  Officer. 
Please  step  this  way.     Are  you  the  Prince  Boris 
Cheremshanov  who  refused  to  take  the  oath? 

Boris. 
I  am  he. 

{Officer  sits  dozvn  and  motions  to 
a  seat  opposite.) 

Police  Officer. 
Please  sit  down. 

Boris. 
I  think  there's  no  use  in  our  talking. 

Police  Officer. 
I  don't  agree.     To  you  at  any  rate  it  may  be 


154  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

of  advantage.  You  see,  I  have  been  informed 
that  you  refused  military  service  and  refused  to 
take  the  oath,  which  raises  the  suspicion  that  you 
belong  to  the  revolutionary  party.  And  this  I 
have  to  investigate.  If  this  is  true,  then  we  must 
remove  you  from  military  service  and  either  put 
you  in  prison  or  exile  you,  according  to  the  extent 
of  your  participation  in  the  revolutionary  move- 
ment. Otherwise  we  leave  you  to  the  military 
authorities.  Please  note  that  I  have  told  you 
everything  quite  frankly,  and  I  trust  you  will  show 
the  same  confidence  in  talking  to  us. 

Boris. 
In  the  first  place  I  cannot  have  any  confidence 
In  those  who  wear  that  {pointing  to  the  uniform.) 
In  the  second  place  your  very  office  is  of  such  a 
nature  that  I  cannot  respect  it,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, despise  it  from  my  heart.  But  I  will  not 
refuse  to  answer  your  questions.  What  is  it  you 
want  to  know? 

Police  Officer. 

First,   please,   your  name,   rank,    and  religious 
faith. 

Boris. 
You  know  all  that,  so  that  I  will  not  answer. 
Only  one  of  those  questions  is  of  any  importance 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  155 

to  me.      I  do  not  belong  to  the  so-called  Orthodox 
Church. 

Police  Officer. 
Then  what  Is  your  religion? 

Boris. 
I  cannot  define  it. 

Police  Officer. 
Still  — 

Boris. 
Let  us  say  Christian,   founded  on  the  Sermon 
on  the  Mount. 

Police  Officer. 
Take  that  down. 

{Stenographer  writes.) 

Police  Officer. 
{to  Boris.)      But  you  acknowledge  that  you  be- 
long to  some  state,  some  class? 

Boris. 
I  do  not  admit  that.     I  consider  myself  a  man, 
a  servant  of  God.  • 

Police  Officer. 
But  why  do  you  not  recognise  your  allegiance 
to  the  Russian  State? 

Boris. 

Because  I  do  not  recognise  the  existence  of  any 
State. 


156  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Police  Officer. 
What  do  you  mean  —  when  you  say  you  do  not 
recognise  It?     Do  you  want  to  destroy  it? 

Boris. 
Most  certainly  I  do,  and  I  work  to  that  end. 

Police  Officer. 
{to   Scribe.)     Take  that  down.      {To   Boris.) 
By  what  means  do  you  work? 

Boris. 
By  denouncing  deceit  and  Hes,  and  by  spread- 
ing the  truth.  Just  now,  the  moment  before  you 
entered,  I  was  telling  these  soldiers  that  they 
must  not  believe  the  deceit  in  which  they  are  made 
to  share. 

Police  Officer. 
But  beside  these  measures  of  denunciation  and 
proselytising,  do  you  admit  other  means? 

Boris. 
I  not  only  exclude  violence,  but  I   consider  It 
the  greatest  sin,  and  all  underhand  actions  also. 

Police  Officer. 
(/o  Scribe.)      Take  It  down.     Very  good.     Now 
allow   me   to   ask  you   about   your   acquaintances, 
your  friends.      Do  you  know  Ivashenkov? 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  157 

Boris. 

No. 

Police  Officer. 
And  Klein? 

Boris. 
I  have  heard  of  him,  but  I  have  never  seen  him. 

{Enter  Chaplain.) 

Police  Officer. 
Well,  I  think  that  is  all.      I  consider  that  you 
are   not   a   dangerous   person.      You   do   not  con- 
cern our  department.      I   hope  you   will   soon  be 
released.     Good-day.      {Shakes  liands.) 

Boris. 
There  is  one  thing  I  should  like  to  say  to  you. 
Excuse  me,   but  I  cannot  resist  saying  jt.     Why 
have  you  chosen  such  a  bad  and  wicked  calling? 
I  would  advise  you  to  leave  it. 

Police  Officer. 
{smiling.)      Thank  you  for  your  advice:  I  have 
my  reasons.     Now,  father,  I'll  give  up  my  place 
to  you. 

{The  priest,  an  old  man  zuith 
cross  and  Testament,  steps  for- 
ward. The  Scribe  advances  to 
receive  his  blessing.) 


158  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Chaplain. 

{to  Boris.)  Why  do  you  grieve  your  superiors 
and  refuse  to  perform  the  duty  of  a  Christian 
by  serving  your  Tsar  and  country? 

Boris. 
{smiling.)      It  is  precisely  because  I  wish  to  per- 
form the  duties  of  a  Christian  that  I  do  not  wish 
to  be  a  soldier. 

Chaplain. 

Why  do  you  not  wish  it?  It  is  written,  "  Lay 
down  your  life  for  your  friends."  That  is  the 
part  of  a  true  Christian. 

Boris. 
Yes,   to  lay  down  your  own,  but  not  take  the 
life  of  others.     To  give  up  my  life  is  just  what 
I  wish. 

Chaplain. 
You   judge   wrongly,    young   man.     And   what 
did  Jesus  Christ  say  to  the  soldiers? 

Boris. 
{smiling.)      That  only  proves  that  even   in   His 
time   soldiers   plundered,    and   He    forbade   them 
to  do  so. 

Chaplain. 
Well  —  why  do  you  refuse  to  take  the  oath? 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  159 

Boris. 
You  know  It  Is  forbidden  In  the  Gospel. 

Chaplain. 

Not  at  all.  How  was  It  that  when  Pilate  said, 
"  In  the  name  of  God  I  ask  you,  are  you  the 
Christ?  "  Our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  answered,  "  I 
am  He."     That  proves  an  oath  Is  not  forbidden. 

Boris. 

Are  you  not  ashamed  to  say  that,  you,  an  old 
man? 

Chaplain. 

I  advise  you  not  to  be  obstinate.  It  is  not  for 
us  to  change  the  world.  Take  the  oath,  and  have 
done  with  It.  As  for  what  Is  sin  and  what  is  not 
sin,  leave  that  for  the  Church  to  decide. 

Boris. 

Leave  it  to  you?  Are  you  not  afraid  to  take 
such  a  weight  of  sin  upon  your  soul  ? 

Chaplain. 

What  sin?  I  have  always  been  true  to  the 
faith  In  which  I  was  educated.  I  have  been  a 
priest  now  for  over  thirty  years;  there  can  be  no 
sin  upon  my  soul. 

Boris. 
Then  whose  Is  the  sin  of  deceiving  so  many 


i6o  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

people?     You  know  what  their  heads  are  full  of. 
{Points  to  the  sentry.) 

Chaplain. 

That,  young  man,  Is  not  for  us  to  judge.     Our 
duty  is  to  obey  our  superiors. 

Boris. 
Leave  me  alone.  I  pity  you,  and  what  you  say 
disgusts  me.  If  you  were  like  that  general  it 
would  not  be  so  bad.  But  you  come  with  cross 
and  Bible  to  try  to  persuade  me  in  the  name  of 
Christ  to  deny  Christ.  Go  —  go!  {Excitedly.) 
Go.  Take  me  away  where  I  shall  see  no  one. 
I  am  tired  —  I  am  terribly  tired. 

Chaplain. 
Well,  good-bye. 

{Enter  AiDE-DE-CAMP.     BORIS  re- 
tires to  hack  of  scene.) 

Aide-de-camp. 
Well? 

Chaplain, 
Great  stubbornness.     Great  insubordination. 

Aide-de-camp. 

He  has  not  consented  to  take  the  oath  and  to 
serve? 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  i6i 

Chaplain. 
Not  in  the  least. 

Aide-de-camp. 
Then  I  shall  have  to  take  him  to  the  hospital. 

Chaplain. 
To  make  out  that  he  is  ill.     Of  course  that's 
the  best  way;  otherwise  his  example  might  be  bad 
for  the  rest. 

Aide-de-camp. 
He  will  be  examined  in  the  ward  for  mental 
ailments.     These  are  my  orders. 

Chaplain. 
Of  course.     Good-day.      (Exit.) 

Aide-de-camp. 

(approaching  Boris.)      Please  come  with  me.     I 
am  ordered  to  escort  you. 

Boris. 
Where  to? 

Aide-de-camp. 
Just  for  a  time,  to  the  hospital,  where  you  will 
be   more   comfortable,    and   will   have   leisure   to 
think  the  matter  over. 

Boris. 

I  have  thought  it  over  for  some  time.     But  let 
us  go.      {Exeunt.) 


1 62  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Scene  III 

Reception-room  in  the  Hospital. 

(Head  Physician  and  House 
Surgeon  and  Patients  in  hospi- 
tal dress.     Warders  in  blouses.) 

Sick  Officer. 

I  tell  you,  you  simply  make  me  worse.  There 
were  times  when  I  felt  quite  well. 

Head  Physician. 

Don't  get  so  excited.  I  am  quite  willing  to 
discharge  you,  but  you  know  yourself  that  it  is 
unsafe  for  you  to  be  at  liberty.  If  I  knew  that 
you  would  be  taken  care  of  — 

Sick  Officer. 

You  think  I  shall  begin  to  drink  again.  Oh 
no!  I've  learned  my  lesson.  Every  additional 
day  spent  here  is  simply  killing  me.  You  do  just 
the  contrary  to  what  {over  excited)  should  be 
done.  You  are  cruel.  It  is  all  very  well  for 
you  — 

Head  Physician. 

Calm  yourself.  {Makes  a  sign  to  Warders 
who  approach  the  Officer  from  behind.) 


SHIiNES  IN  DARKNESS  163 

Sick  Officer. 

It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk  when  you  are 
free.  But  how  do  you  think  I  feel  here  in  the 
company  of  lunatics?  {To  Warders.)  Why 
are  you  coming  so  near  to  me?     Get  away? 

Head  Physician. 
I  beg  you  to  be  calm. 

Sick  Officer. 

And  I  beg,  I  insist  on  my  discharge.  {Shrieks, 
rushes  at  doctor.  Warders  seize  him  —  a  strug- 
gle—  they  lead  him  away.) 

House  Surgeon. 

Same  thing  all  over  again.  He  was  on  the 
point  of  striking  you. 

Head  Physician. 

Alcoholic  subject,  and  there's  nothing  to  be 
done  for  him.      Still  there  is  some  improvement. 

{Enter  Aide-de-camp.) 

Aide-de-camp. 
Good  morning. 

Head  Physician. 

Good  morning. 


1 64  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Aide-de-camp. 

I  have  brought  you  a  very  interesting  case.  A 
certain  Prince  Cheremshanov  was  to  do  his  mili- 
tary service,  and  refused  on  the  ground  of  the 
Gospel.  He  was  handed  over  to  the  police,  but 
they  found  him  outside  their  jurisdiction,  and  de- 
cided it  was  not  a  political  case.  The  chaplain 
talked  to  him,  but  without  the  slightest  effect. 

Head  Physician. 

{laughing.)      And  as  usual  you  bring  him  to  us 
as  the  last  resort.     Well,  let's  have  a  look  at  him. 

{Exit  House  Surgeon.) 

Aide-de-camp. 
They  say  he  is  a  well-educated  fellow,  and  that 
he's  engaged  to  a  rich  girl.      It  is  very  strange.      I 
must  say  the  hospital  is  exactly  the  right  place  for 
him. 

Head  Physician. 
It  must  be  a  case  of  mania  ^— - 

(Boris  is  brought  in.) 

Good  morning.  Please  sit  down.  We'll  have 
a  little  talk.      {To  the  others.)      Leave  us  alone. 

{Exeunt  all  save  Boris  and  Physician.) 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  165 

Boris. 

I  would  like  to  ask  you,  if  you  are  going  to 
shut  me  up  somewhere,  to  do  it  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible and  let  me  have  a  rest. 

Head  Physician. 
Excuse  me :  I  must  comply  with  the  regulations. 
I  will  merely  put  a  few  questions  to  you.      How 
do  you  feel?     From  what  are  you  suffering? 

Boris. 
There's  nothing  the  matter  with  me.     I   am 
perfectly  well. 

Head  Physician. 

Yes;  but  your  conduct  is  different  from  the  con- 
duct of  others. 

Boris. 
I  am  acting  according  to  the  dictates  of  my 
conscience. 

Head  Physician. 
You    have   refused   to   perform   your   military 
duty.     What  is  your  motive? 

Boris. 
I  am  a  Christian,  and  therefore  cannot  kill. 

Head  Physician. 
But  is  it  not  necessary  to  protect  the  country 


1 66  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

from    foreign    enemies,    and    restrain    from    evil 
those  who  disturb  the  peace  within? 

Boris. 

The  country  is  not  attacked  by  any  enemies, 
and  as  for  disturbers  of  the  peace  within  her  bor- 
ders, there  are  more  of  those  within  the  Govern- 
ment than  among  the  people  towards  whom  the 
Government  uses  violence. 

Head  Physician. 
What  do  you  mean  by  that? 

Boris. 

I  mean  that  the  chief  cause  of  evil  —  alcohol 
—  is  sold  by  the  Government;  a  false  religious 
creed  is  spread  by  the  Government;  and  the  very 
military  service,  such  as  I  am  required  to  perform, 
and  which  is  the  principal  means  of  corruption  in 
the  country,  is  required  by  the  Government. 

Head  Physician. 

Then,  according  to  your  views.  Government 
and  State  are  unnecessary. 

Boris. 

I  do  not  know;  but  I  am  quite  sure  I  must  not 
participate  in  these  evils. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  167 

Head  Physician. 
But  what  will  become  of  the  world?     We  are 
given  a  mind  with  which  to  look  ahead. 

Boris. 
Yes,  and  we  are  also  given  common  sense  to  see 
that  the  organisation  of  society  shall  not  be 
founded  on  violence,  but  on  love,  and  that  the  re- 
fusal of  one  man  to  participate  in  evil  has  noth- 
ing dangerous  in  it  — 

Head  Physician. 
Now  please  let  me  make  an  examination.     Will 
you  kindly  lie  down?      {Begins  to  examine  him.) 
Do  you  feel  any  pain  here? 

Boris. 

No. 

Head  Physician. 
Nor  here? 

Boris. 
No. 

Head  Physician. 
Breathe.     Now    don't    breathe.     Thank    you. 
Now  allow  me.      ( Takes  out  a  measure  and  meas- 
ures his  nose  and  his  forehead.)      Now  be  so  kind 
as  to  shut  your  eyes  and  walk. 


i68  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Boris. 
Aren't  you  ashamed  to  do  all  that? 

Head  Physician. 
What? 

Boris. 

All  these  silly  things.  You  know  perfectly 
well  that  I'm  all  right,  and  have  been  sent  here 
for  refusing  to  take  part  in  their  wickedness,  and 
as  they  had  no  arguments  to  offer  in  opposition  to 
my  truth,  they  pretend  that  they  think  me  abnor- 
mal. And  you  aid  them  in  that !  That  is  des- 
picable and  disgraceful.     You'd  better  stop  it. 

Head  Physician. 
Then  you  do  not  wish  to  walk? 

Boris. 

No,  I  do  not.  You  may  torment  me  as  much 
as  you  like.  That  is  your  business.  But  I  do  not 
wish  to  help  you  in  it.  {Vehemently.)  Stop  it, 
I  say! 

(Head  Physician  presses  a  but- 
ton.    Two  Warders  enter.) 

Head  Physician. 
Be  calm,  please.     I  quite  understand  that  your 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  169 

nerves  are  rather  over-strained.     Would  you  not 
like  to  go  to  your  quarters? 

{Enter  House  Surgeon.) 

House  Surgeon. 
Visitors  have  come  for  Cheremshanov. 

Boris. 
Who  are  they? 

House  Surgeon. 
Sarintsev  and  his  daughter. 

Boris. 
I  should  like  to  see  them. 

Head  Physician. 

I  have  no  objection.     Ask  them  in.     You  may 
receive  them  here. 

{Enter  NICHOLAS  IvANOVICH  and 
LuBA.  Princess  Cheremshanova 
puts  her  head  into  the  door,  saying, 
"Go  in,  I'll  come  later.") 

LuBA. 

{goes  straight  to   Boris,   takes  his  face  between 
her  hands,  and  kisses  him.)      Poor  Boris! 

Boris. 
No,  don't  pity  me.     I  feel  so  well  —  so  happy. 


I70  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

I  am  so  easy  in  my  mind.      {To  Nicholas  Ivan- 
OVICH.)      How  do  you  do?      {Embraces  him.) 

Nicholas. 

I  came  to  tell  you  something  important.  In 
the  first  place,  it  is  worse  in  such  cases  to  overdo 
it  than  to  do  too  little;  in  the  second  place,  you 
must  act  according  to  the  Gospel,  taking  no 
thought  as  to  your  future  words  and  acts.  When 
taken  before  the  authorities  "  think  not  what  ye 
shall  say,  for  the  Holy  Ghost  will  teach  you  in 
that  hour  what  ye  ought  to  say."  The  moment 
to  act  is  not  when  your  reason  dictates  this  or 
that,  but  only  when  your  whole  being  determines 
your  action. 

Boris. 
That's  just  what  I  did.  I  did  not  think  I 
should  refuse  to  serve.  But  when  I  saw  all  this 
falsehood,  the  emblem  of  justice,  the  documents, 
the  police,  and  the  members  of  the  Council  smok- 
ing—  I  could  not  help  speaking  as  I  did.  It 
seemed  a  terrible  thing  to  do,  but  only  till  I  began. 
Then  all  became  so  simple  and  delightful. 

(LuBA  sits  weeping.) 

Nicholas. 
Above  all,  do  nothing  for  the  sake  of  the  praise 
of  men,  or  in  order  to  please  those  whose  esteem 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  171 

you  value.  As  for  myself,  I  tell  you  honestly  that 
if  you  took  the  oath  this  moment  and  entered  the 
army,  I  would  love  and  respect  you  no  less;  pos- 
sibly even  more  than  before,  because  it  is  not 
what  is  done  in  the  world  that  is  of  value,  but 
what  is  done  within  the  soul, 

Boris. 
That  is  certainly  so,  because  if  a  thing  Is  done 
within  the  soul,   it  will  bring  about  a  change  in 
the  world. 

Nicholas. 
Well,  I  have  said  what  I  had  to  say.     Your 
mother  is  here,   and  she  is  quite  broken-hearted. 
If  you  can  do  what  she  desires,  do  it.      That  is 
what  I  wanted  to  tell  you. 

{In  the  corridor  frightful  scream- 
ing of  the  lunatics.  One  lunatic 
bursts  into  the  room.  Warders  fol- 
low and  drag  him  away.) 

LuBA. 
This   is  dreadful !     And  you  will   have   to  be 
here!      {JVeeps.) 

Boris. 

This  doesn't   frighten  me.      Nothing  frightens 
me  now.      I  feel  at  peace.      The  only  thing  that  I 


172  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

fear  is  your  attitude  to  all  this.     Help  me  —  Tm 
sure  you  will  help  me. 

LUBA. 

How  can  I  be  glad? 

Nicholas. 

Be  glad.  That  is  impossible.  Neither  am  I 
glad.  I  suffer  for  him  and  would  willingly  take 
his  place.  But  I  am  suffering,  and  yet  I  know 
that  it  is  for  the  best. 

LuBA. 
For  the  best!     When  will  they  let  him  go? 

Boris. 
No  one  knows.     I  am  not  thinking  about  the 
future;    the    present    is    joyful.      And    you    could 
make  it  still  more  so. 

{Enter  Princess.) 

Princess. 
I  can  wait  no  longer.  ( To  Nicholas  Ivano- 
VICH.)  Well,  have  you  persuaded  him?  Are 
you  willing,  Boris  darling?  You  must  know  how 
I  have  suffered.  Thirty  years  of  my  life  have 
been  given  to  you.  To  bring  you  up  and  be  so 
proud  of  you,  and  then  when  all  is  ready  and  fin- 
ished, suddenly  to  give  up  everything.  Prison, 
disgrace!     No,   Boris  — 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  173 

Boris. 

Listen,  mother. 

Princess. 
(to    Nicholas    Ivanovich.)     Why    don't   you 
say    something?     You    have    brought    about    his 
ruin,   and  you   ought  to  persuade   him.      It's   all 
very  well  for  you.     Luba,  speak  to  him! 

LuBA. 
What  can  I  do? 

Boris. 
Mother,  try  to  understand  that  some  things  are 
impossible.     Just  as  it  is  impossible  to  fly,  so  it 
is  impossible  for  me  to  serve  in  the  army. 

Princess. 

You  only  imagine  you  cannot!  It's  all  non- 
sense. Others  have  served,  and  are  serving  now. 
You  and  Nicholas  Ivanovich  have  invented  a  new 
Christian  creed  that  is  not  Christian  at  all.  It  is 
a  diabolical  creed,  that  causes  suffering  to  every 
one  around  you. 

Boris. 
So  it  is  written  in  the  Gospel. 

Princess. 
Nothing  of  that  sort  is  said.      And  if  it  is,  it's 


174  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

simply  stupid.  Boris  darling,  spare  me!  {Falls 
on  his  neck  and  sobs.)  My  whole  life  has  been 
full  of  sorrow.  You  have  been  my  only  gleam 
of  gladness,  and  now  you  turn  it  into  anguish. 
Boris,  have  pity! 

Boris. 
It  is  very,  very  painful  to  me,  mother,  but  I 
cannot  promise  you  that. 

Princess. 
Do  not  refuse.     Say  you  will  try! 

Nicholas. 
Say  you  will  think  it  over,  and  do  think  it  over. 

Boris. 
Very  well  —  I  will  do  that.     But  have  pity  on 
me,  also,  mother.     It  is  hard  for  me  too. 

{Again  desperate  screams  in   a  corridor.) 

I  am  in  a  lunatic  asylum,  you  see,  and  I  may  lose 
my  reason. 

{Enter  Head  Physician.) 

Head  Physician. 
Madame,    this    may    have    the    worst    results. 
Your  son  is  in  a  very  excited  state.      I  think  we 
had  better  consider  the  visit  at  an  end.     The  reg- 
ular visiting  day  is  Thursday  before  twelve. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  175 

Princess. 
Well,  well,  I  will  go.     Good-bye,  Boris.     Only 
do  think  it  over.     Spare  me,   and  on  Thursday 
meet  me  with  good  news.      {Kisses  him.) 

Nicholas. 
(shaking  hands  with  him.)      Think  it  over,  with 
God's  help,  as  if  to-morrow  you  were  going  to  die. 
That  is  the  only  way  to  make  the  right  decision. 
Good-bye. 

Boris. 
{approaching  LuBA.)      What  are  you   going  to 
say  to  me? 

LuBA. 
What  can  I  say?     I  cannot  be  untruthful.     I 
do  not  understand  why  you  torture  yourself  and 
others.      I  do  not  understand,  and  there  is  noth- 
ing I  can  say.      {Weeps.) 

{They  all  go.) 

Boris. 
{alone.)      Oh,   how   difficult,   how  difficult  it  is! 
God  help  me ! 

{Enter  Warders  with  hospital  attire.) 

Warder. 
Will  you  please  put  this  on? 

Boris. 
{begins  to  change — then.)      No,  I  will  not! 
{They  change  his  garments  by  force.) 


ACT    IV 

Scene  I 

Moscow.  A  year  has  passed  since  the  third 
act.  Big  drawing-room  with  piano  arranged  for 
dancing  party  in  Sarintsev's  house.  Footman  ar- 
ranges flowers  in  front  of  piano.  A  Christmas 
tree. 

{Enter  Marie  Ivanovna  in  ele- 
gant silk  dress,  with  Alexandra 
Ivanovna.) 

Marie. 

It  Isn't  a  ball.  It  is  only  a  small  dance.  A 
party,  as  we  used  to  say,  for  the  young  people.  I 
can't  let  my  children  go  out  to  dances  and  never 
give  a  party  myself. 

Alexandra. 
I'm  afraid  Nicholas  will  be  displeased. 

Marie. 

What  can  I  do?  {To  Footman.)  Put  it 
here.  Heaven  knows  I  do  not  want  to  grieve 
him.  But  I  think  he  is  less  exacting  now,  on  the 
whole. 

'176 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  177 

Alexandra. 
Oh  no !     Only  he  does  not  talk  about  it.     He 
seemed   quite   upset   when   he  went  to   his   room 
after  dinner. 

Marie. 

But  what  is  to  be  done?  what  is  to  be  done? 
We  must  all  live.  There  are  six  children,  and  if 
I  did  not  provide  some  amusement  for  them  at 
home,  Heaven  knows  what  they  would  do.  At 
any  rate,  I  am  happy  about  Luba. 

Alexandra. 
Has  he  proposed? 

Marie. 

Practically.  He  has  spoken  to  her  and  she  has 
accepted  him. 

Alexandra. 
That  will  be  another  awful  blow  for  him. 

Marie. 
But  he  knows.     He  cannot  help  knowing. 

Alexandra. 
He  does  not  like  him. 

Marie. 
{to  Footman.)      Put  the  fruit  on  the  side-board. 
Whom    do    you    mean?     Alexis    Mikhailovich? 


178  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Of  course  not,  for  he  is  the  embodied  negation  of 
all  his  theories  —  a  man  of  the  world,  nice,  kind, 
agreeable.  Oh,  that  awful  nightmare  of  Boris 
Cheremshanov !     How  is  he  now? 

Alexandra. 
Lisa   has  been   to   see   him.     He's   still   there. 
She  says  he  has  grown  very  thin,  and  the  doctors 
are  anxious  about  his  hfe  or  reason. 

Marie. 
He  is  a  victim  of  his  dreadful  theories.     His 
life  ruined  —  to  what  end?     It  certainly  was  not 
my  wish, 

(Enter  Pianist.) 

You  have  come  to  play  for  the  dancing? 

Pianist. 
Yes,  I  am  the  pianist. 

Marie. 
Please  sit  down  and  wait.     Will  you  have  some 
tea? 

Pianist. 
No,  thank  you.      (Goes  to  piano.) 

Marie. 
I  never  wished  it.     I  was  fond  of  Boris.     But 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  179 

of  course  he  was  no  match  for  Luba,   especially 
after  taking  up  with  Nicholas's  ideas. 

Alexandra. 
Still,  his  strength  of  conviction  is  extraordinary. 
What  agony  he  has  been  through !  They  tell 
him  that  if  he  will  not  give  in  he  must  stay  where 
he  is  or  else  be  sent  to  the  fortress,  and  he  gives 
them  but  one  answer.  And  Lisa  says  he's  so 
happy,  even  merry. 

Marie. 
Fanatic!     Oh,  there's  Alexis  Mikhailovich! 

{Enter  the  brilliant  Alexis 
Mikhailovich  Starkovsky  in 
evening  dress.) 

Starkovsky. 

I  have  come  early.      {Kisses  the  hands  of  both 
ladies.) 

Marie. 
So  much  the  better. 

Starkovsky. 
And  Lubov  Nicolaevna?     She  said  she  was  go- 
ing to  dance  a  lot  to  make  up  for  what  she  had 
missed.     I  volunteered  to  help  her. 

Marie. 
She  is  arranging  the  favours  for  the  cotillion. 


i8o  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Starkovsky. 
I'll  go  and  help  her.      May  I? 

Marie. 
Certainly. 

(Starkovsky  Hirns  to  go,  and 
meets  Luba  coming  towai'd  him  car- 
rying a  cushion  on  which  are  stars 
and  ribbons.  LuBA  in  evening 
dress,  not  low-necked.) 

Luba. 

Oh,  there  you  are!  That's  right.  Do  help 
me.  There  are  two  more  cushions  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, bring  them  here.  How  do  you  do ! 
How  do  you  do ! 

Starkovsky. 
I  am  off!      {Goes.) 

Marie. 
{to  Luba.)      Listen,  Luba.     To-night  our  guests 
are  sure  to  make  insinuations  and  ask  questions. 
May  we  announce  it? 

Luba. 
No,   mother,   no.     Why?     Let  them   ask.     It 
would  grieve  father. 

Marie. 
But  he  must  know,  or  at  least  guess.     And  we 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  i8i 

shall  have  to  tell  him  sooner  or  later.  I  really 
think  it  is  best  to  announce  it  to-night.  It  is  a 
farcical  secret. 

LuBA. 

No,  no,  mother  —  please!  It  would  spoil  the 
whole  evening.     No,  don't! 

Marie. 

Very  well,  as  you  like. 

LUBA. 

Or,  anyhow,  not  till  the  end  of  the  evening, 
just  before  supper.  {Calling  out.)  Well,  are 
you  bringing  them? 

Marie. 
I  will  go  and  see  to  Natasha. 

(Exit  with  Anna  Ivanovna.) 

Starkovsky. 

(brings  three  cushions,  the  top  one  under  his  chin, 
and  lets  something  drop.)  Don't  you  trouble, 
Lubov  Nicolaevna.  I'll  pick  them  up.  I  say, 
what  a  lot  of  favours  you've  got!  The  thing  is 
to  distribute  them  properly!     Vania,  come  here. 

{Enter  Vania^  carrying  more  fa- 
vours. ) 


1 82  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Vania. 

That's  the  last  of  them.  Luba,  Alexis  Mik- 
hailovich  and  I  have  got  a  bet  on  as  to  who  will 
get  most  favours. 

Starkovsky. 
It's  very  easy  for  you.      You  know  everybody, 
so  you  are  sure  of  theirs  in  advance.      I  must  win 
the  girls  before  I  can  get  any  favours  at  all.     So 
I  have  a  handicap  of  forty  points,  you  see. 

Vania. 
But  you  are  grown  up,  and  I'm  only  a  boy. 

Starkovsky. 
I'm  not  very  grown  up,  and  so  I  am  worse  than 
a  boy. 

Luba. 
Vania,  please  go  to  my  room  and  bring  me  the 
paste   and  my  needle-case;  they're  on  the   shelf. 
But  for  mercy's  sake  don't  break  the  watch  there. 

Vania. 
(running  off.)      I'll  break  everything. 

Starkovsky. 
(takes  Luba's  hand.)      May  I,  Luba?     I  am  so 
happy.      (Kisses    her    hand.)      The    mazurka    is 
mine,  but  that  isn't  enough.     There  isn't  time  In 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  183 

the  mazurka  to  say  much,  and  I  have  a  great  deal 
to  say.  May  I  telegraph  to  my  people  and  tell 
them  you  have  accepted  me  and  how  happy  I  am? 

LUBA. 

Yes,  you  can  do  it  to-night. 

Starkovsky. 
One  word  more.     How  will  Nicholas  Ivano- 
vich  take  the  news?     Have  you  told  him?     Have 
you  told  him?     Yes? 

LUBA. 

No,  I  have  not,  but  I  will.  He  will  take  it  just 
as  he  takes  everything  now  that  concerns  his  fam- 
ily. He  will  say,  "  Do  as  you  like."  But  in  his 
heart  he  will  be  grieved. 

Starkovsky. 
Because  I  am  not  Cheremshanov  —  because  I 
am  a  chamberlain,  a  marshal  of  nobility? 

LuBA. 

Yes.  But  I  have  tried  to  fight  against  myself 
. —  to  deceive  myself  for  his  sake.  And  it  is  not 
because  I  do  not  love  him  that  I  do  not  follow  his 
wishes,  but  because  I  cannot  act  a  lie.  And  he 
says  himself  that  one  should  not.  I  long  to  live 
my  own  life ! 


1 84  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Starkovsky. 
Life  is  the  only  truth  there  is.     What  has  be- 
come of  Cheremshanov? 

LUBA. 

[agitated.)  Do  not  talk  to  me  about  him.  I 
want  to  find  fault  with  him  even  when  he  is  suffer- 
ing. I  know  it  is  because  I  am  to  blame  about 
him.  But  one  thing  I  do  know:  that  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  love  —  real  love  —  and  that  I 
never  had  for  him. 

Starkovsky. 
Do  you  really  mean  it,  Luba? 

LUBA. 

You  want  me  to  say  that  it  is  you  that  I  love 
with  a  real  love?  I  will  not  say  that.  I  cer- 
tainly love  you.  .  .  .  But  it  is  a  different  kind  of 
love.  Neither  of  them  is  the  real  thing.  If  I 
could  only  put  them  both  together.   .  .  . 

Starkovsky. 
Oh  no,  I'm  quite  content  with  mine.      {Kisses 
her  hand. )      Luba  ! 

LuBA. 
(moving   from    him.)      No;    we   must   talk   this 
over.     You  see,  the  guests  are  beginning  to  ar- 
rive. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  185 

{Enter    Countess    with    Tonia 
arid  a  younger  girl.) 
Mother  will  be  here  directly. 

Countess. 
We  are  the  first  then? 

Starkovsky. 

Somebody  must  be  first.      I  offered  to  make  an 
india-rubber  lady  to  be  the  first  arrival. 

{Enter    Stephen    with    Vania, 
who  brings  the  paste  and  needles.) 

Stephen. 

{to  Tonia.)      I  hoped  to  see  you  last  night  at  the 
Italian  opera. 

Tonia. 

We  were  at  my  aunt's,  sewing  for  the  poor. 

{Enter    Students,    Ladies,    and 
Marie  Ivanovna.) 

Countess. 

{to  Marie  Ivanovna.)      Shall  we  not  see  Nich- 
olas Ivanovich? 

Marie. 

No;  he  never  leaves  his  rooms. 

Stephen. 
How  did  Cheremshanov's  affair  end? 


1 86  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Marie. 
He  IS  still  In  the  asylum,  poor  boy. 

Countess. 
What  obstinacy! 

One  of  the  Guests. 
What  an  extraordinary  delusion!     What  good 
can  come  of  it? 

Student. 

Take  your  partners  for  the  quadrille,  please ! 

{Claps  his  hands.  They  take  up 
their  positions  and  dance.  Enter 
Alexandra  Ivanovna,  and  walks 
up  to  her  sister.) 

Alexandra. 

He  is  frightfully  excited.  He  has  been  to  see 
Boris,  and  on  returning  he  saw  the  dancing  going 
on.  He  wants  to  go  away.  I  went  up  to  his 
door,  and  heard  his  conversation  with  Alexander 
Petrovich. 

Marie. 

What  did  they  say? 

Voice  from  the  Dance. 
Rond  des  dames.     Les  cavaliers  en  avant. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  187 

Alexandra. 

He  has  made  up  his  mind  that  he  cannot  pos- 
sibly continue  to  live  here,  and  he  is  going  away. 

Marie. 

What  a  torment  that  man  is ! 

{Exit  Marie  Ivanovna.) 


Scene  II 

Nicholas  Ivanovich's  room.  Music  is 
heard  from  afar.  He  has  his  coat  on,  and  puts  a 
letter  on  the  table.  IFith  him  is  a  tramp,  ALEX- 
ANDER PetROVICH,  in  rags. 

Alexander. 
Don't  be  uneasy.     We  can  get  to  the  Caucasus 
without  a  penny;  and  when  we  are  once  there  you 
can  arrange  matters. 

Nicholas. 
We  will  take  the  train  to  Tula,  and  then  we 
will  go  on  foot.  Now,  we're  ready.  {Puts  the 
letter  in  the  middle  of  the  table,  and  goes  to- 
wards the  door.  Meets  Marie  Ivanovna,  who 
enters.) 

Nicholas. 
What  have  you  come  for? 


1 88  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Marie. 
To  see  what  you  are  doing. 

Nicholas. 
I  am  suffering  terribly. 

Marie. 
What  have  I  come  for?     Not  to  let  you  do  a 
cruel  thing.     Why  do  you  do  it?     What  have  I 
done? 

Nicholas. 
Why?     Because  I  cannot  go  on  living  like  this; 
I  cannot  endure  this  horrible  life  of  depravity! 

Marie. 

But  this  Is  awful.  You  call  my  life,  which  I 
devote  to  you  and  to  the  children,  depraved! 
{Noticing  the  presence  of  Alexander  Petro- 
VICH.)  Renvoyez  an  moins  cet  homme.  Je  ne 
veiix  pas  qu'il  soit  temoin  de  cette  conversation. 

Alexander. 

{in   broken  French.)      Comprenez   ton  jours   moi 
parte. 

Nicholas. 
Wait  for  me  outside,  Alexander  Petrovlch.     I 
will  come  directly. 

{Exit  Alexander  Petrovich.) 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  189 

Marie. 

What  can  you  have  in  common  with  that  man? 
Why  he  is  more  to  you  than  your  wife  passes  all 
comprehension.     Where  do  you  intend  to  go? 

Nicholas. 
I  was  leaving  a  letter  for  you.      I  did  not  want 
to  talk  about  it.      It  is  too  painful.      But  if  you 
wish  I  will  try  to  tell  you  calmly  what  is  in  it. 

Marie. 

No;  I  absolutely  cannot  understand  why  you 
hate  and  punish  the  wife  who  has  given  up  every- 
thing for  you.  Can  you  say  that  I  go  out  into 
society,  that  I  love  dress  or  flirtations?  No!  my 
whole  life  has  been  devoted  to  my  family.  I 
nursed  all  my  children  myself;  I  brought  them 
up  myself;  and  during  these  last  years  the  whole 
burden  of  their  education  and  all  the  manage- 
ment of  our  affairs  has  fallen  on  me. 

Nicholas. 

{interrupting.)  But  all  the  weight  of  that  bur- 
den is  due  to  your  refusal  to  lead  the  life  I  pro- 
posed. 

Marie. 

But  what  you  proposed  was  impossible.  Ask 
anybody!     I  could  not  let  the  children  grow  up 


I90  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

illiterate,  as  you  desired;  and  I  could  not  do  the 
cooking  and  the  washing  with  my  own  hands. 

Nicholas. 
I  never  asked  you  to. 

Marie. 
Well,  something  very  like  It.  You  call  your- 
self a  Christian,  and  you  want  to  do  good  in  the 
world.  You  say  you  love  humanity.  Then  why 
do  you  torment  the  woman  who  has  given  her 
whole  life  to  you? 

Nicholas. 

In  what  way  am  I  tormenting  you?  I  love 
you,  but  — 

Marie. 

Is  it  not  tormenting  me  to  leave  me  and  to  go 
away?  What  will  all  the  world  say?  One  of 
the  two  —  either  that  I  am  a  bad,  wicked  woman, 
or  that  you  are  mad. 

Nicholas. 

Let  them  say  I  am  mad  then.  I  cannot  live 
like  this. 

Marie. 

Why  is  it  so  terrible  that  I  should  give  a  party? 
• —  the  only  one  during  the  whole  season,  for  fear 
of  grieving  you?     I  only  did  it  because  every  one 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  191 

said  it  was  a  necessity.  Ask  Mary,  ask  Varvara 
Vasilievna.  You  treat  this  as  a  crime,  and  make 
me  suffer  disgrace  for  it.  It  is  not  so  much  the 
disgrace  I  mind.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  you  do 
not  love  me  —  you  love  the  whole  world,  even 
that  drunkard  Alexander  Petrovich.  .  .  . 
But  I  still  love  you  —  I  cannot  live  without  you. 
What  have  I  done?  what  have  I  done?  (She 
weeps.) 

Nicholas. 
You  will  not  understand  my  life  —  my  spiritual 
life. 

Marie. 
I  do  want  to,  but  I  can't.     I  only  see  that  your 
idea  of  Christianity  makes  you  hate  your  family, 
and  hate  me.     Why,  I  do  not  understand. 

Nicholas. 
But  others  understand. 

Marie. 
Who?     Alexander  Petrovich,  who  gets  money 
from  you? 

Nicholas. 
He  and  Ermilovich,  Tonia,   and  Vasily.     But 
that    is    immaterial.     If    no    one    understood,    it 
would  alter  nothing. 

Marie. 
Vasily  Ermilovich  has   repented,   and  has  re- 


192  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

turned   to   his  parish,   and   at  this  very  moment 
Tonia  is  dancing  and  flirting  with  Stephen. 

Nicholas. 
I  am  very  sorry.  But  this  cannot  make  black 
white,  nor  can  it  change  my  life.  Masha,  you 
do  not  need  me  —  let  me  go !  I  have  tried  to 
take  part  in  your  life  —  to  bring  into  it  the  thing 
that  is  life  to  me  —  but  it  cannot  be  done.  The 
only  result  is  that  I  torture  both  you  and  myself; 
and  it  is  not  only  torture  to  me,  but  it  ruins 
everything  I  attempt.  Everybody  —  even  that 
very  Alexander  Petrovich  —  has  the  right  to  say, 
and  does  say,  that  I  am  an  impostor:  that  I  say 
one  thing  and  do  another;  that  I  preach  the  pov- 
erty of  Christ  and  live  in  luxury,  under  cover  of 
having  given  everything  to  my  wife. 

Marie.  ' 

Then  you  are  ashamed  of  yourself  before  the 
world?     Are  you  not   above  that? 

Nicholas. 

It  is  not  that  I  am  ashamed  of  myself  —  though 
I  certainly  am  —  but  that  I  am  hindering  the  work 
of  God. 

Marie.     * 

You  say  yourself  that  the  work  of  God  goes  on 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  193 

in  spite  of  all  opposition.      But  leaving  that  aside, 
tell  me  what  you  want  me  to  do. 

Nicholas. 
I  have  told  you. 

Marie. 

But,  Nicholas,  you  know  that  that  is  impossi- 
ble. Think  of  it.  Luba  is  just  going  to  be  mar- 
ried, Vania  has  entered  the  university,  and  Missie 
and  Katia  are  at  school :  how  could  I  interrupt  all 
that? 

Nicholas. 

But  I?     What  am  I  to  do? 

Marie. 

Practise  what  you  preach:  endure  and  love. 
Is  that  so  difficult?  Only  put  up  with  us  —  do 
not  deprive  us  of  yourself!  What  is  it  that  dis- 
tresses you  so? 

(Vania  rushes  in.) 

Vania. 
Mother,  you  are  wanted. 

Marie. 
Say  I  can't  come.     Go;  go  away. 

Vania. 
Please  come  I 

(Exit.) 


194  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Nicholas. 
You  will  not  see  my  point  of  view,  and  under- 
stand me. 

Marie. 
I  only  wish  I  could. 

Nicholas. 

No,  you  do  not  wish  to  understand;  and  we  are 
growing  further  and  further  apart.  Put  yourself 
in  my  place  for  a  moment  and  think,  and  you 
will  understand.  In  the  first  place,  life  here  is 
depraved  —  such  words  anger  you,  but  I  can  use 
no  other  when  speaking  of  a  life  founded  on  rob- 
bery—  because  the  money  you  live  on  comes  from 
the  land  you  have  stolen  from  the  people.  Be- 
sides, I  see  how  the  children  are  being  corrupted 
by  it.  "  Woe  to  him  who  offends  one  of  these 
little  ones !  " —  and  before  my  very  eyes  I  see  my 
children  ruined  and  corrupted.  Nor  can  I  bear 
to  see  grown  men  dressed  up  in  swallow-tailed 
coats  serving  us  as  though  they  were  slaves. 
Every  meal  is  a  misery. 

Marie. 

But  it  has  always  been  so.  It  is  so  in  all 
houses  —  abroad  and  everywhere. 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  195 

Nicholas. 

Since  I  have  realised  that  we  are  all  brothers, 
I  cannot  look  on  without  pain. 

Marie. 

It  is  your  own   fault.     One  can  imagine  any- 
thing. 

Nicholas. 

{holly.)  This  want  of  understanding  is  awful. 
To-day  I  spent  the  morning  among  the  scavengers 
in  the  Rijanov  Night  Lodgings.  I  saw  a  child 
dying  of  starvation;  a  boy  that  had  become  a 
drunkard;  a  consumptive  laundress  going  to  rinse 
her  linen  in  the  river:  and  I  come  home  and  a 
footman  in  a  white  tie  opens  my  front  door  to  me. 
I  hear  my  son,  a  young  boy,  tell  that  footman  to 
bring  him  a  glass  of  water,  and  I  see  a  regiment 
of  servants  that  work  for  us.  Then  I  go  to 
Boris,  who  is  giving  up  his  life  for  the  truth,  and 
I  see  this  pure,  strong,  resolute  man  deliberately 
driven  to  madness  and  to  death  in  order  that  they 
may  get  rid  of  him.  I  know,  and  they  know,  that 
he  has  organic  heart  trouble;  and  they  provoke 
him,  and  then  put  him  among  raving  maniacs! 
Oh,  it  is  awful !  And  now  I  return  home  to  learn 
that  my  daughter  —  the  only  one  of  my  family 
who    understood    not    me,    but    the    truth  —  has 


196  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

thrown  over  both  the  truth  and  the  man  she  was 
engaged  to,  and  had  promised  to  love,  and  is  go- 
ing to  marry  a  flunlcey  —  a  liar. 

Marie. 
What  a  very  Christian  sentiment! 

Nicholas. 
Yes,  It  is  wrong.      I  am  to  blame.      But  I  want 
you  to  enter  into  my  feeling.     I  only  say  that  she 
has  repudiated  the  truth. 

Marie. 

You  say  the  truth.  The  rest,  the  majority,  say 
error.  Vasily  Ermilovich  thought  he  had  gone 
astray,  but  now  he  returned  to  the  Church. 

Nicholas. 
It  is  impossible. 

Marie. 
He  wrote   all  about  it  to  Lisa,  and  she  will 
show  you  the  letter.     These  things  do  not  last. 
It's  the  same  with  Tonia,  not  to  mention  Alex- 
ander Petrovich,  who  simply  finds  it  profitable. 

Nicholas. 
(getting   angry.)      That   is    immaterial.     I    only 
want  you  to  understand  me.     I  still  consider  that 
truth  remains  truth.     It  is  painful  to  me  to  come 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  197 

home  and  see  a  Christmas  tree,  a  ball,  hundreds 
squandered  when  others  are  dying  of  hunger.  I 
can  not  live  like  this!  Have  mercy  on  me!  I 
am  worn  out.     Let  me  go !     Good-bye. 

Marie. 

If  you  go,  I  go  with  you;  and  if  not  with  you,  I 
will  throw  myself  under  your  train.  Let  them  all 
perish  —  all  —  Missie  —  Katia  —  all  of  them. 
My  God,  my  God,  what  anguish!     Why  is  it? 

{Sobbing.) 
Nicholas. 
{calling    at    the    door.)      Alexander    Petrovich ! 
Go.      I    shall    not    go    with    you.      I    shall    stay. 
{Takes  off  his  coat.) 

Marie. 
We  have  not  much  longer  to  live.     Do  not  let 
us  spoil  our  life  after  twenty-eight  years  together. 
I  will  not  give  any  more  parties,  but  do  not  pain 
me  so! 

(Vania  and  Katia  rush  in.) 

Both. 
Mother,  come  quick! 

Marie. 
Em  coming  —  I'm  coming!     Then  let  us  for- 
give each  other. 

{Exeunt    Marie   Ivanovna   and 
Children.) 


198  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Nicholas. 

(alone.)  A  child  —  a  perfect  child!  Or  —  a 
cunning  woman!  Ah,  yes  —  a  cunning  child. 
That  is  it !  O  Thou  dost  not  desire  me  for  Thy 
servant.  Thou  wouldest  humiliate  me  that  all 
should  point  at  me  and  say,  "  He  talks  but  he  does 
not  act."  I  submit.  He  knows  best  what  He  de- 
sires. Humility,  simplicity.  Oh !  if  I  could  only 
raise  myself  to  Him.      (Enter  Lisa.) 

Lisa. 

Excuse  me:  I  came  to  bring  you  a  letter  from 
Vasily  Ermilovich.  It  was  written  to  me,  but 
he  wanted  me  to  tell  you  about  it. 

Nicholas. 
Is  It  really  true  then? 

Lisa. 
Yes.      Read  what  he  says. 

Nicholas. 
Will  you  read  it  to  me? 

Lisa. 

(reading.)  "I  am  writing  to  ask  you  to  com- 
municate this  to  Nicholas  Ivanovlch.  I  pro- 
foundly regret  the  error  which  made  me  openly 
renounce  the  Holy  Orthodox  Church,   and  I  re- 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  199 

joice  in  my  return.  I  wish  the  same  for  you  and 
for  Nicholas  Ivanovich,  and  I  ask  your  forgive- 
ness."   . 

Nicholas. 

They  have  driven  the  poor  man  to  this,  but  still 
it  is  terrible. 

Lisa. 

I  wanted  to  tell  you  also  that  the  Princess  has 
come.  She  came  into  my  room  in  a  terrible  state 
of  excitement,  and  says  she  must  see  you.  She 
has  just  come  from  Boris.  I  think  you  had  bet- 
ter not  see  her.     What  good  could  it  do? 

Nicholas. 
No,  call  her  in.     Evidently  this  is  to  be  a  ter- 
rible day  of  trial. 

Lisa. 
Then  I'll  call  her.      {Exit.) 

Nicholas. 
(alone.)  Oh,  just  to  remember  that  life  consists 
in  serving  Thee!  To  remember  that  if  Thou 
sendest  trials  to  me,  it  is  that  Thou  thinkest  that 
I  am  able  to  bear  them;  that  they  are  not  above 
my  strength,  otherwise  it  would  not  be  a  trial. 
Father,  help  me  —  help  me  to  do  Thy  will,  and 
not  my  own. 

(Enter  Princess.) 


200  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Princess. 
Oh,    so    you    have    admitted    me — you    have 
deigned   to   receive   me,     I   will   not   shake  your 
hand,  because  I  hate  and  despise  you. 

Nicholas. 
What  has  happened? 

Princess. 

Just  this!  He  is  being  transferred  to  the  dis- 
ciplinary battalion,  and  it  is  your  doing. 

Nicholas. 

Princess,  if  you  want  anything,  tell  me  what  it 
is.  If  you  have  only  come  to  abuse  me,  you  are 
merely  doing  yourself  harm.  As  for  me,  you 
cannot  offend  me,  because  I  sympathise  with  you, 
and  pity  you  with  all  my  soul. 

Princess. 
How  charitable!  Sublime  Christianity!  No, 
Monsieur  Sarintsev,  you  cannot  deceive  me.  I 
know  you  now.  It  is  nothing  to  you  that  you 
have  ruined  my  son,  and  here  you  are  giving  balls. 
Your  daughter,  who  is  engaged  to  my  son,  is 
about  to  make  a  match  of  which  you  approve, 
while  you  pretend  to  lead  the  simple  life  —  you 
play  at  carpentering.  How  hateful  you  are  to 
me,  with  your  pharisaical  life! 


SHINES  TN  DARKNESS  201 

Nicholas. 
Calm  yourself,  Princess,  and  tell  me  what  you 
want.      You  have  not  come  simply  to  abuse  me. 

Princess. 

Yes,  partly.  I  had  to  pour  out  my  anguish. 
What  I  want  of  you  is  this:  they  are  sending  him 
to  the  disciplinary  battalion,  and  I  cannot  bear 
that.  And  it  is  you  who  have  done  It  —  you  — 
you  —  you ! 

Nicholas. 

Not  I  —  God  has  done  it.  And  God  knows 
how  I  pity  you.  Do  not  set  yourself  in  opposi- 
tion to  the  will  of  God.  He  is  testing  you.  Bear 
it  humbly. 

Princess. 

I  cannot  bear  it  humbly.  My  son  is  all  the 
world  to  me,  and  you  have  taken  him  from  me 
and  have  ruined  him.  I  cannot  accept  it  quietly. 
I  have  come  to  you,  and  I  tell  you  again,  and  for 
the  last  time,  that  you  have  brought  about  his 
ruin,  and  you  must  save  him.  Go  and  obtain  his 
release  —  go  to  the  authorities,  to  the  Tsar,  to 
whomever  you  will.  It  is  your  duty.  If  you 
will  not,  I  know  what  I  shall  do.  You  will  an- 
swer to  me  for  what  you  have  done. 


202  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Nicholas. 

Tell  me  what  I  am  to  do.     I  am  willing  to  do 
all  I  can. 

Princess. 

I  repeat  once  more,  you  must  save  him.     If  you 
do  not  —  remember.     Good-bye.      (Exit.) 

(Nicholas  lies  down  on  the  sofa. 
Silence.  Pause.  Music  of  "  Gross- 
vater's  Tanz  "  is  distinctly  heard.) 

Stephen. 

Father  isn't  here.      Come  on. 

(Enter  chain  of  dancers,  adults 
and  children.) 

LUBA. 

(seeing  her  father.)  Oh,  you  are  here!  I  beg 
your  pardon ! 

Nicholas. 

(rising.)      Never  mind. 

(Chain  goes  through  the  room  and 
out  at  the  other  door.) 

(alone.)  Vasily  Ermilovich  has  returned  to  the 
Church.  Boris  is  ruined  through  me.  Luba  will 
marry.  Is  it  possible  that  I  am  mistaken  —  mis- 
taken in  believing  Thee?  Ah  no!  Father,  help 
me  I 


ACT    V 

Scene  I 

A  cell  in  the  Disciplinary  Battalion. —  Prison- 
ers sitting  or  lying  about. —  Boris  reading  the 
Gospel  and  making  cotninents. 

A  man  who  has  been  flogged  led  out  from  this 
cell. — "  Oh,  why  is  there  not  another  Pugachev 
to  avenge  us?  " 

Princess    rushes    in. —  She    is    turned    out. — 
Struggle  zvith  an  officer. 
.  Prisoners  ordered  to  prayers. 

Boris  sent  to  the  dungeon,  and  sentenced  to  be 
flogged. 

Scene  II 

The  Czar's  Study. —  Cigarettes. —  Jokes. — 
Blandishments. —  Princess  is  announced. —  Or- 
dered to  wait. 

Cringing  Petitioners. 

Then  enter  Princess. —  Request  refused. 

{Exeunt.) 

Scene  III 

Marie  Ivanovna. —  Speak  with  doctor  of  ill- 
ness of  Nicholas  Ivanovich. —  He  has  changed,  is 
very  mild,  but  dejected. 

203 


204  THE  LIGHT  THAT 

Nicholas  Ivanovich  enters  with  doctor. — 
Treatment  is  futile. —  The  soul  is  more  Important, 
but  I  consent  for  the  sake  of  my  wife.  {Enter 
ToNiA  with  Stephen,  Luba  with  Starkovsky.) 
Talk  of  the  land.  Nicholas  Ivanovich  tries 
not  to  of  end  the  others.      {All  go.) 

Nicholas. 
{alone  with  LiSA.)  I  am  in  a  state  of  continual 
vacillation.  Have  I  done  right?  I  have 
achieved  nothing.  I  have  ruined  Boris.  Vasily 
Ermilovlch  has  returned  to  the  Church.  I  am  an 
example  of  weakness.  I  see  God  did  not  want 
me  to  be  His  servant.  He  has  many  other  serv- 
ants. They  will  do  the  right  thing  without  me. 
To  see  that  clearly  is  to  obtain  peace  of  mind. 

(Lisa  goes. —  He  prays.) 

Princess  dashes  in  and  kills  him.- —  All  riish 
in. —  He  says  he  did  it  himself  accidentally. — 
Writes  petition  to  the  Tsar. 

Enter  Vasily  Ermilovich  with  Dukhohors. 
—  Nicholas  Ivanovich  dies  rejoicing  that  the 
falsehoods  of  the  Church  are  broken  down. —  He 
realises  the  meaning  of  his  life. 

Alternative  for  Last  Scene. 

Letter  from  Boris  full  of  desperate  agitation. 
"I  know — I  have  also  passed  through  that." 


SHINES  IN  DARKNESS  205 

Liberals.- — A  professor  from  the  height  of 
his  superiority  forgives  and  explains. 

A  Liberal  society  lady,  wearing  diamonds,  pres- 
ent.— 

"  They  are  unable  to  understand.  It  will  take 
a  hundred  years  for  them  to  do  so." 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Man  Who  Was  Dead ii 


The  Cause  of  It  All i 


59 


i 


DRAMATIS  PERSON.^ 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

Elizaveta  Ali:xandrovna  Protasov,]        her 
Alexandra  Allxandrovna(Sasha),  ,  daughters 
Floor  Vasilievich  Protasov.     Lisa's  husband. 
Anna  Dmitrievna  Karenin.     Fifty  years. 
Victor    Mikiiailovich    Karenin.     Her    son, 

thirty-eight  years. 
Prince      Sergius      Dmitrievich      Abreskov. 

Sixty  years. 
Mikhail   Alexandrovich    Afremov.     Protas- 

ov's  friend. 
Stakhov, 
BuTKEViCH,    I  Afremov's  friends. 

KOROTKOV, 

Ivan  Maksimovich.     Old  gipsy. 

Nastassia  Ivanovna.     His  wife. 

Masha.     Their  daughter. 

Ivan  Petrovich  Alexandrov. 

Petushkov. 

Artemiev. 

VosNESSENSKY.     Secretary  of  the  Synod. 

Examining  Magistrate. 

Secretary  of  the  Examining  Magistrate. 


lo       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Young  Lawyer. 

Petrushin.     Lawyer. 

Doctor. 

Official. 

Maria  Dmitrievna  O.     Friend  of  Lisa; 

Nurse. 

MiSHNA.     Lisa's  little  son. 

Guard  in  the  court. 

Servants,  Gipsies,  Waiters,  Policemen,  etc. 


I 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

ACT  I 

Scene  I 

Anna  Pavlovna,  a  stout,  mid- 
dle-aged, tight-laced  lady,  is  sitting 
at  the  tea-table. 

The  Nurse  enters,  with  a  tea- 
-pot  in  her  hand. 

Nurse. 
May  I  take  some  boiling  water? 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
Oh,  certainly.     How  is  baby? 

Nurse. 

As  restless  as  can  be.  What  is  the  good  of 
ladies  trying  to  nurse  their  babies  themselves! 
All  their  worries  the  baby  has  to  suffer  for. 
When  a  mother  stays  awake  all  night  long,  and 
never  leaves  off  crying,  what  can  her  milk  be 
worth? 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
Oh,  that's  over,  I  think.     She  is  quiet  now. 

II 


12        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Nurse. 
Quiet,    indeed!      I    can't   stand   looking   at   the 
poor   dear.      Just   now   she   started   off   to    write, 
and  how  she  cried  all  the  time! 

Sash  A   (entering). 
(  To  Nurse.)      Lisa  wants  you. 

Nurse. 
I'm  coming.      (She  goes  out.) 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

Nurse  says  she  still  goes  on  crying.  I  do  wish 
she  could  manage  to  get  over  it! 

Sasha. 

Mother,  you  are  perfectly  astonishing!  How 
on  earth  can  you  expect  her  to  behave  as  if  noth- 
ing had  happened,  when  she's  just  left  her  hus- 
band and  taken  her  baby  with  her?  . 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

I  don't  exactly.  But  the  past  must  be  left  to 
take  care  of  itself.  You  may  be  quite  sure  that 
if  I  approve  of  my  daughter  having  left  her  hus- 
band, and  if  I  welcome  the  step  she  has  taken 
—  well,  that  he  deserved  it.      She  has  no  reason  to 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        13 

make  herself  miserable.  She  ought  only  to  be 
overjoyed  at  being  free  now  from  such  an  abomi- 
nable wretch. 

Sasha. 

How  can  you  talk  like  that,  mother?  You 
know  perfectly  well  it  isn't  true.  He's  not  a 
wretch;  he's  a  wonderful  man  —  yes,  he  is.  Oh, 
of  course,  I  know  he  has  faults,  but  he's  wonder- 
ful! 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

Wonderful,  indeed!  The  moment  he  has 
money,  whether  he  gets  it  from  his  own  pocket  or 
somebody  else's  — 

Sasha. 

Mother!  He  has  never  taken  anybody  else's 
money. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

Yes,  he  has.     Hasn't  he  taken  his  wife's  money? 

Sasha. 

Why,  he  settled  the  whole  of  his  fortune  on 
Lisa  I 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

It  was  the  only  thing  for  him  to  do.  He  knew 
he  would  squander  everything  he  could  lay  hands 
on. 


14       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Sasha. 

I'm  sure  I  don't  care  whether  he  would  or  he 
wouldn't.  All  I  know  is  that  a  wife  ought  not  to 
leave  her  husband  —  particularly  a  husband  like 
Fedia. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

I  suppose  you  would  have  liked  her  to  wait  till 
he  had  spent  absolutely  everything  they  had,  and 
not  have  objected  in  the  least  when  he  brought 
his  gipsy  mistresses  home  with  him? 

Sasha. 
He  hasn't  got  any  mistresses. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

That  is  the  worst  of  it  —  he  seems  to  have  be- 
witched you  all;  I  don't  know  how.  I  should 
like  to  see  him  try  it  on  with  me.  I  can  see 
through  him,  and  he  knows  it.  In  Lisa's  place  I 
would  have  left  him  a  good  twelve  months  ago. 

Sasha. 
Oh,  you  think  it's  all  so  easy! 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

That's  just  where  you're  mistaken.  It's  very 
far  from  easy  for  me  to  see  my  daughter  separated 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        15 

from  her  husband.  It  Is,  indeed.  But  anything 
is  better  than  that  a  young  life  like  hers  should  be 
ruined.  I  consider  it  truly  providential  that  she 
has  made  up  her  mind  to  go,  and  that  everything 
is  over  between  them. 

Sasha. 
Perhaps  it  isn't. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
It  will  be.      If  only  he  will  consent  to  a  divorce. 

Sasha. 
What  will  be  the  good  of  that? 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
The  good  will  be  that  she  is  young  and  that  she 
may  still  have  some  happiness  in  store  for  her. 

Sasha. 
It  is  simply  disgusting  to  hear  you  talk  like  that, 
mother!     Lisa  can't  love  another  man. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
Why    not?     Why    shouldn't    she,    when    she's 
free?     There   are  men   a   thousand   times   better 
than  your  adored  Fedia  who  would  be  enchanted 
to  marry  Lisa. 


i6       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Sasha. 

I  know  whom  you  mean,  mother.  It's  very 
wrong  of  you.     I  know  you  mean  Victor  Karenin. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

Well,  there's  no  harm  In  it  if  I  do.  He's  been 
in  love  with  her  for  ten  years,  and  she  loves  him. 

Sasha. 

She  doesn't  love  him  in  the  least  as  a  husband. 
They  have  just  been  friends  ever  since  they  were 
children. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

I  know  what  such  friendships  mean.  Oh,  if 
only  nothing  crops  up  to  prevent  itl 

A  Maid  enters. 
What  is  it? 

Maid. 

The  porter  has  come  back  with  an  answer  to  the 
note  for  Victor  Mikhailovich. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
Who  sent  him? 

Maid. 
Elizaveta  Andreevna. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        17 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
Well  ? 

Maid. 
Victor  Mlkhailovlch  told  the  porter  he  would 
be  here  directly. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

How  extraordinary,  when  we  were  just  talking 
about  him  !  But  what  can  she  want  him  for  now? 
(  To  Sasha.)      Do  you  know? 

Sasha. 
Maybe  I  do.      Maybe  I  don't. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
You  always  make  secrets  of  things. 

Sasha. 
Lisa  will  tell  you  when  she  comes. 

Anna  Pavlovna 

shakes  her  head.  {To  the  Maid.)  The  samo- 
var is  cold.  Take  it  away,  Duniasha,  and  make 
the  water  boil  again. 

The  Maid  takes  the  samovar 
and  goes  out.  Sasha  rises  as  if  to 
follow  her  from  the  room. 


1 8        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

You  see  I  was  right.     She  has  sent  for  him  at 
once. 

Sasha. 

I  dare  say  it's  some  perfectly  different  reason 
from  what  you  think. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
What  for,  then? 

Sasha. 

She  doesn't  care  a  scrap  more  for  Karenin  than 
for  that  old  nurse  Tripovna. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

You  will  see.      I  know  her.     She's  sent  for  him 
because  she  wants  him  to  console  her. 

Sasha. 

O  mother,  how  little  you  know  her  if  you  can 
think  — 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

You  will  see.     Yes,  and  I  am  very,  very  glad 
indeed. 

Sasha. 
We'll  see.      (She  goes  out,  humming.) 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        19 

Anna  Pavlovna, 
{Alone,  shak'ni^  her  head  and  mutterhig  to  her- 
self.)     Very  well,    I   don't  mind.     Very  well,    I 
don't  mind.      I  — 

Maid   {entering.) 
Victor  Mikhailovich  has  come. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

Ask  him  in,  and  tell  Elizaveta  Andreevna. 

The  Maid  goes  out  by  the  door 
leading  to  the  inner  apartments. 

Victor  Karenin 

entering,  and  shaking  hands  with  Anna  Pav- 
lovna. I  got  a  note  from  Elizaveta  Andreevna 
asking  me  to  come  round.  I  meant  in  any  case  to 
call  this  evenmg,  so  I  was  delighted  ...  is 
she  quite  well? 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

She  is  all  right;  the  baby  is  a  little  ailing.  She 
will  be  here  in  a  minute.  {Sadly.)  We  are  hav- 
ing a  hard  time  just  now.  But  you  know  all  about 
that. 

Karenin. 

I  know.  I  was  here  the  day  before  yesterday, 
when  that  letter  came  from  him.  But  is  this  really 
a  final  decision? 


20        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Anna  Pavlovna.  • 

I  should  think  so!  It  would  be  utterly  Impos- 
sible to  begin  all  over  again. 

Karenin, 

I  should  like  to  urge  that  in  this  case  particularly 
second  thoughts  may  be  best.  It  is  a  terrible 
thing  to  tear  lives  apart  that  have  been  bound  to- 
gether. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

No  doubt.  But  with  them  the  rift  began  long 
ago,  and  the  complete  severance  was  easier  than 
one  would  have  thought.  He  understands  that 
after  all  that  has  happened  he  could  not  return 
home,  even  if  it  had  been  open  to  him  to  do  so. 

Karenin. 
Why? 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

After  his  disgusting  conduct?  He  swore  it 
should  never  never  happen  again,  and  he  gave  his 
word  that  if  it  did  he  would  voluntarily  resign  all 
claims  on  his  wife,  and  give  her  back  her  entire 
freedom. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        21 

Karen  IN. 
How  can  a  wife  tied  by  the  marriage  bond  be 
given  back  her  freedom? 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
She  can  be  made  tree  by  a  divorce.     He  has 
agreed  to  a  divorce,  and  we  shall  insist  on  it. 

Karenin. 
But     Elizaveta     Andreevna     loved     him     so 
deeply  — 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
Her  love  has  been  so  terribly  tried  that  there  is 
hardly  anything  left  of  it.      Drinking,  gambling, 
unfaithfulness  —  what  love  could  bear  with  such  a 
husband? 

Karenin. 
True  love  holds  in  spite  of  all. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
You  say:  love.  But  who  could  love  a  man  like 
that?  He  was  perfectly  unreliable;  there  was  no 
depending  on  him  in  anything.  You  know  the  last 
thing  that  happened  {looking  back  at  the  door, 
and  finishing  quickly  what  she  had  to  say.)  Their 
situation  was  absolutely  critical,  everything  was 
pawned  —  they  had  nothing  to  meet  the  most  nec- 
essary expenses.  At  last  his  uncle  sent  two  thou- 
sand roubles  due  as  Interest.  He  takes  that  money 
and  disappears,  leaving  his  wife  alone  with  the  sick 


22        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

baby,  waiting  for  him;  and  tlien  comes  a  note, 
asking  to  have  his  clothes  and  things  sent  after 
him. 

Karenin. 

Yes,  I  know. 

Sasha  and  Lisa  come  in  together. 

.    Anna  Pavlovna. 

Victor  Mikhailovich  does  come,  you  see,  when 
you  send  for  him. 

Karenin. 

I  would  have  come  sooner,  but  I  was  detained 
{he  shakes  hands  with  the  sisters.) 

Lisa. 

Thank  you  so  much.     I  have  a  great  service 
to  ask  you.     There  is  no  one  else  I  could  turn  to. 

Karenin. 
Anything  I  can  do,  I  will. 

Lisa. 
You  know  all  about  this,  don't  you? 

Karenin. 
Yes,  I  know. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        23 
Anna  Pavlovna. 

Then  I  will  leave  you  to  yourselves.      {To  Sa- 

SHA.)      Come  with  me.     We  shall  be  in  the  way. 

(Anna  Pavlovna  aud  Sasha  go  out.) 

Lisa. 

Well,  he  has  written  to  me  saying  it's  all  over 
between  us.      I  {restraining  her  tears)  was  so  hurt 
that — .     Anyhow,  I  agreed  to  separate.      I  have 
answered  that  I  am  willing  to  part,  as  he  wishes, 
it. 

Karenin. 

And  now  you  are  sorry  for  having  said  so? 

Lisa. 

Yes.  I  feel  I  ought  not  to  have  accepted.  I 
cannot. —  Anything,  but  not  to  part  with  him. 
Now,  give  him  that  letter.  Please,  Victor,  give 
him  the  letter  and  tell  him. —  Bring  him  back! 

Karenin  {surprised.) 
Well,  but  — 

Lisa. 

Say  I  ask  him  to  forget  all  that  has  happened, 
and  to  come  back.  Of  course  I  could  send  him  the 
letter.     But  I  know  him  so  well:  his  first  impulse. 


24       THE  MAN -WHO  WAS  DEAD 

as  always,  would  be  a  good  one;  but  then  some- 
body else's  influence  would  come  in,  and  he  would 
change  his  mind  and  do  the  contrary  of  what  he 
really  wished. 

Karenin. 
I  will  do  what  I  can. 

Lisa. 

You  are  surprised  at  my  asking  yon  to  help  me? 

Karenin. 

No  —  well,  yes,  to  tell  the  truth;  yes,  I  am  sur- 
prised. 

Lisa. 
But  not  angry? 

Karenin. 
How  can  I  be  angry  with  you? 

Lisa. 

I  asked  you  because  I  know  you  love  him. 

Karenin. 

Him,  and  you.  You  know  that.  And  you 
know  that  I  love  you  for  yourself  alone,  not  for 
anything  I  may  hope  from  you.  Thank  you  for 
trusting  me.     I  will  do  all  I  can. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        25 

Lisa. 

I  know  you  will.  I  will  tell  you  everything.  I 
called  to-day  at  Afremov's  to  ask  if  they  knew 
where  he  was.  They  told  me  that  he  had  gone  to 
the  gipsies.  I  am  in  terrible  anxiety.  I  am  so 
afraid  of  his  passion  for  them.  If  he  is  not  re- 
strained in  time,  it  will  enslave  him  again.  It 
must  be  prevented.      You  will  look  for  him? 

Karenin. 

I'll  go  at  once. 

Lisa. 

Go.  Find  him,  and  tell .  him  I've  forgotten 
everything  and  am  waiting  for  him. 

Karenin   (risiug.) 
But  where  shall  I  go  to  find  him? 

Lisa. 

He  is  at  the  gipsies'.  I  went  to  the  place  my- 
self. I  went  to  the  door.- — I  was  just  going  to 
send  in  the  letter,  but  then  I  thought  I  had  better 
not,  and  decided  to  ask  you.  Here  is  the  address. 
Tell  him  that  he  is  to  come  back  as  if  nothing  had 
happened;  that  I  have  forgotten  everything.  Do 
it  out  of  love  for  him,  and  out  of  friendship  for 
us. 


26        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Karenin. 

I  will  do  everything  I  can.      {He  hows  to  her 
and  goes  out.) 

Lisa  {alone.) 

I  cannot,  I  cannot.     Anything  but —  I  cannot! 

{Enter  Sasha.) 

Sasha. 

Well,  have  you  asked  him? 
Lisa  {nods.) 

Sasha. 
And  he  was  willing  to  go? 

Lisa. 
Of  course. 

Sasha. 
But  why  did  you  ask  him  to  do  it?     I  can't  un- 
derstand. 

Lisa. 
Whom  else  could  I  ask? 

Sasha. 
But  you  know  that  he  is  in  love  with  you. 

Lisa. 
That  is  a  thing  of  the  past.     And  whom  else 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD       27 

would  you  have  me  ask?     Tell  me:  you  think  he 
will  come  back? 

Sasha. 
I  am  sure  he  will.     He  — 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
(comifig  back.)      Where  Is  Victor  Mlkhailovlch? 

Lisa. 
Gone. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
Gone? 

Lisa. 

I  have  asked  him  to  do  something  for  me. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
What  was  it?     Another  secret? 

Lisa. 

No  secret  at  all.      I  simply  asked  him  to  take  a 
letter  to  Fedia. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
To  Fedia?     To  Fedor  Vasilievich? 

Lisa. 
Yes,  to  Fedia. 


28       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
I  thought  it  was  all  over  between  you. 

Lisa. 
I  cannot  part  from  him. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
What!     The  same  old  story  beginning  again? 

Lisa. 

I  wanted  to:  I  tried  hard,  but  I  can't.      Pll  do 
anything  you  like,  but  I  can't  part  from  him. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
You  don't  mean  you  want  him  to  come  back? 

Lisa. 
Yes,  I  do. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
To  have  that  wretch  again  in  your  house! 

Lisa. 

Mother,  I  wish  you  would  not  talk  about  my 
husband  like  that. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
He  was  your  husband,  but  he  is  so  no  more. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD       29 

Lisa. 
He  Is  my  husband. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

A  spendthrift,  a  drunkard,  a  rake  —  and  you 
cannot  part  from  him. 

Lisa. 

Why  do  you  torture  me  ?  I  am  wretched 
enough  as  it  is.     You  are  so  inconsiderate  — 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

That  is  how  you  take  it.  I  torture  you,  do  I? 
Very  well.  Then  I  had  better  go.  I  cannot  stand 
it. 

(Lisa  keeps  silent.) 

I  see;  I  am  in  your  way,  and  you  want  me  to 
go.  I  can  only  say  I  am  disgusted.  I  don't  un- 
derstand you,  or  what  you  want.  You  are  wholly 
unreliable.  One  moment  you  decide  to  leave  your 
husband,  the  next  you  send  for  the  man  who  is  in 
love  with  you. 

Lisa. 

Nothing  of  the  kind. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
You  know  that  Karenin  proposed  to  you,  and 


30       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

now  you  send  him  to  bring  back  your  husband. 
Do  you  simply  want  to  make  him  jealous? 

Lisa. 

Mother!  how  abominable!  Do  leave  me  in 
peace,  can't  you? 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

Turn  out  your  mother,  do;  and  welcome  your 
depraved  husband.  No,  no;  I  won't  wait  for  you 
to  do  it.  I  shall  go  at  once.  And  you  can  do 
whatever  you  choose.  {She  goes  out,  banging  the 
door.) 

Lisa. 

{dropping  into  a  chair.)      That,  too  1 

Sasha. 

Don't  worry.  That  will  be  all  right.  We  will 
make  peace  with  mother. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
{crossing  the  room.)      Duniasha,  my  bag! 

Sasha. 

Listen,  mother  I 

{She  follows  her  mother  out  of 
the  room  looking  significantly  at 
Lisa.) 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        31 


Scene  II 

A  room  at  the  gipsies'.    Gipsies  sing  "  Kanavella." 

(Fedia  is  lying  on  the  sofa,  his 

face  down;  he  has  taken  of  his  coat. 

Afremov  is  sitting  astride  on  a 

chair,  facing  the  leader  of  the  gipsy 

singers. 

An  Officer  sits  at  the  table,  on 
which  are  standing  bottles  of  cham- 
pagne and  glasses.  At  his  side  sits 
a  Musician  taking  down  the 
songs.) 

Afremov. 
You   asleep,   Fedia? 

Fedia. 
(rising.)      Shut  up  1     Now  then,  "Not  the  even- 
ing hour." 

Gipsy. 
Not  yet,   Fedor  Vasilievich.     Let  Masha  sing 
a  song  first. 

Fedia. 
All  right     And  after  that,  "  Not  the  evening 
hour."      (He  lies  down  again.) 

Officer. 
Let's  have  "  The  fatal  hour!  " 


32       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Gipsy. 
(to  Afremov.)      Shall  she  sing  that? 


Afremov. 


I  don't  mind. 


Officer. 
{to  the  Musician.)     Have  you  got  it  right? 

Musician. 

It's  Impossible  to  take  it  down  correctly.  Each 
time  the  tune  changes  somehow.  And  they  seem 
to  have  a  different  scale.  Now,  here.  {He  calls 
to  a  gipsy  woman.)  How  is  this?  {Humming 
the  tune.)      Is  this  right? 

Gipsy  Woman. 
Quite  right.      Splendid. 

Fedia. 

{rising.)  He  won't  get  it  right  on  paper,  and 
even  if  he  does,  and  then  shovels  it  into  an  opera, 
he'll  make  it  seem  absolutely  rotten.  Well, 
Masha,  fire  away!  Anything  will  do:  "  The  fatal 
hour,"  if  you  like.  Take  the  guitar.  {He  rises, 
sits  dotvn  facing  her,  and  looks  in  her  eyes.) 

(Masha  sings.) 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        33 
Fedia. 

That's  wonderful.  And  you're  wonderful  too, 
Masha!     Now  then,  "  Not  the  evening  hour." 

Afremov. 

Wait  a  moment.  Let's  have  my  funeral  song 
first. 

Officer. 

Funeral?     What's  that? 

Afremov. 

Why,  when  I  die.  .  .  .  Really  die,  you 
know ;  when  I  am  lying  in  the  coffin,  the  gipsies  will 
come  ...  I  shall  give  directions  to  my  wife 
in  my  will,  you  know.  And  then,  when  they  begin 
singing  their  "  Shol-me-wersta,"  I  shall  jump  out 
of  the  coffin,  don't  you  know.  That  is  the  song 
you  ought  to  note  down.     Now  then,  start  in ! 

{The  Gipsies  sing.) 

Afremov. 

What  do  you  say  to  that?  Eh?  And  now, 
"  Love,  my  dear  ones." 

{The  Gipsies  sing.) 
(Afremov  dances  to  the  tune. 
The  Gipsies,  smiling,  go  on  sing- 
ing and  beat  the  measure. 


34       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Afremov  sits  down.      The  song 
ends.) 

Gipsy. 

I  say,  Mikhail  Andreevich,  you  dance  like  a  true 
gipsy. 

Fedia. 
And  now,  "  Not  the  evening  hour." 

{The  Gipsies  sing.) 

That's  it.  That  is  the  song.  Wonderful! 
And  how  does  it  all  happen?  What  is  it  all 
about?  Wonderful,  wonderful!  To  think  that 
man  can  reach  such  ecstasy  and  then  —  nothing 
more;  nothing  further  —  we  can  achieve  nothing 
with  it! 

Musician. 
{taking  notes.)      Yes,  it  is  very  original. 

Fedia. 
Original  is  not  the  word.     It  is  the  real  thing. 

Afremov. 

Well,  Pharaoh's  tribe,  take  a  rest.  {He  takes 
a  guitar,  and  sits  down  at  the  side  of  the  gipsy  girl 
Katia.) 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        35 
Musician. 

It  is  very  simple,  on  the  whole,  but  there's  some- 
thing queer  about  the  rhythm. 

Fedia. 

(with  a  gesture,  cojnes  near  Masha  and  sits  down 
on  the  sofa  close  to  her.)  O  Masha,  Masha,  you 
turn  my  soul  inside  out. 

Masha. 
Well?     What  is  it  I  asked  you  for? 

Fedia. 

What?     Money,      {He  takes  money  out  from 
his  trousers'  pockets.)      There,  take  it. 

(Masha     laughs,     takes     the 
money,  and  hides  it  in  her  bodice.) 

Fedia. 

{to  the  Gipsies.)  Incomprehensible  creature! 
She  unlocks  the  gates  of  heaven  for  me!  And 
then  all  she  asks  for  is  —  money!  In  the  devil's 
name,  do  you  understand  yourself  what  you  are 
doing? 

Masha. 
I  don't  know  what  there  is  to  understand.     I 


36       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

understand  that  if  I  care  for  some  one  I  do  my 
best  to  please  him,  and  I  sing  for  him  better  than 
for  all  the  rest. 

Fedia. 
Do  you  care  for  me? 

Masha. 
You  know  how  much. 

Fedia. 

You  —  marvel!      (  Kisses  her.) 

(The  Gipsies,  Men  and 
Women,  leave  the  room.  A  few 
couples  remain:  Afremov  with 
Katia,  the  Officer  with  another 
girl,  Gasha.  The  Musician 
writes.  A  gipsy  plays  a  waltz  on 
the  guitar  very   softly.) 

Fedia. 

I  am  a  married  man.  And  you  belong  to  your 
gipsy  troupe.     They  would  not  let  you  — 

Masha. 

My  heart  and  the  troupe  have  nothing  to  do 
with  one  another.  If  I  love  a  man,  I  love  him  no 
matter  what  comes.  Or  if  I  hate  a  man,  I  hate 
him,  and  no  help  for  it. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        37 

Fedia. 

I  am  happy!     I  am  happy!      And  you  —  are 
you  happy? 

Masha. 

I'm  always  happy  when  nice  visitors  come,  and 
then  we  all  have  fun. 

Gipsy. 

{entering,  to  Fedia.)      A  gentleman  is  asking  for 
you. 

Fedia. 
What  gentleman? 

Gipsy. 

Don't  know.     He  is  well  dressed.     Sable  fur 
coat, 

Fedia. 
Rich?     Well,  ask  him  in. 

Afremov. 
Who  can  it  be  wants  to  see  you  here? 

Fedia. 

The  devil  knows.     Who  can  want  me! 

(Karenin     comes     in     looking 
round  the  room.) 


38        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Fedia. 

Victor!  You  are  the  last  man  I  would  have  ex- 
pected. Take  off  your  coat.  What  wind  has 
blown  you  here?  Sit  down.  They  will  sing 
"  Not  the  evening  hour  "  for  you. 

Karenin. 
Je  voiidrais  voiis  parler  sans  temoine. 

Fedia. 
What  about? 

Karenin. 

Je  viens  de  chez  voiis.  Votre  femme  m'a 
char  gee  de  cette  lettre,  et  puis  — 

Fedia. 

{takes  the  letter,  reads,  frowns,  then  smiles  affec- 
tionately.) Listen,  Karenin;  you  know,  I  dare 
say,  what  that  letter  contains? 

Karenin. 
I  know.     And  I  want  to  tell  you  — : 

Fedia. 

Wait,  wait.  Don't  imagine,  please,  that  I  am 
drunk,  and  that  my  words  are  unaccountable  —  I 
mean,  that  I  am  unaccountable.     I  am  drunk,  but 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        39 

my  head  Is  quite  clear  about  this.      But  what  have 
you  been  told  to  tell  me?. 

Karenin, 

Your  wife  has  asked  me  to  find  you,  and  to  say 
that  she  is  waiting  for  you.  She  begs  you  to  for- 
get everything,  and  to  come  back. 

Fedia. 

(listens  silently,   looking  into   his   eyes.)      I   still 
don't  understand.     Why  have  you?     .     .     . 

Karenin. 

Elizaveta  Andreeva  sent  for  me,  and  asked 
me  — 

Fedia. 
Then  — 

Karenin. 

But  it  is  not  so  much  in  your  wife's  name  as  on 
my  own  behalf  that  I  implore  you  to  come  home 
with  me ! 

Fedia. 

You're  a  better  man  than  T  am.  What  a  ridic- 
ulous way  to  put  it !  It's  not  hard  to  be  better  than 
me:  I'm  a  scoundrel,  and  you  are  a  good  man. 
That's  why  I  won't  go  back  on  my  decision.  And 
not  only  because  of  that.  I  simply  cannot,  and 
will  not.     How  could  I  go  back? 


40       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Karenin. 

Come  to  me  first.  I  will  tell  her  you  have  come 
back,  and  to-morrow  — 

Fedia. 

Well  —  to-morrow?  To-morrow  I  shall  be 
just  what  I  am  now,  and  she  will  be  the  same  as 
she  is.  {He  goes  to  the  table  and  drinks.)  Bet- 
ter have  the  tooth  straight  out.  I  told  her  that  if 
I  didn't  keep  my  word,  she  was  to  leave  me.  I 
did  not  keep  it,  and  there's  an  end  of  it. 

Karenin. 
For  you,  but  not  for  her. 

Fedia. 

It's  very  extraordinary  that  you  should  take  so 
much  trouble  to  prevent  our  marriage  from  being 
broken  up. 

(Karenin  is  about  to  say  some- 
thing, when  Masha  enters.) 

Fedia. 

{interrupting    him.)      Now    just    hear    her    sing 
"  The  Flax."      Masha,  sing  for  him. 

{The  Gipsies  gradually  return 
to  the  room.) 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        41 
Masha. 
(whispering.)      We  ought  to  give  him  a  cheer. 

Fedia. 

(laughing.)      Give   him   a   cheer  1     Three  cheers 
for  Victor  Mikhailovich! 

( The    Gipsies    sing,    cheering 
Karenin.) 

Karenin. 

(listens,  somehow  confused.      To  Fedia.)      How 
much  ought  I  to  give  them? 

Fedia. 

Give  them  twenty-five  roubles. 

(Karenin  gives  the  money,  then 
quietly  leaves  the  room.) 

There,  that's  good.  Now  "The  Flax." 
(Looking  round.)  Hullo!  Karenin  has  van- 
ished.     Devil  take  him ! 

(The  Gipsies  disperse.) 

Fedia. 

(sitting  down  close  to  Masha.)      You  know  who 
that  was? 

Masha. 

I  heard  the  name. 


42        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Fedia. 

He  is  an  excellent  fellow.  He  came  to  fetch 
me  home,  to  my  wife.  She  loves  me,  and  that  is 
how  I  behave,  fool  that  I  am ! 

Masha. 
You're  wrong.     You  ought  to  have  pity  on  her. 

Fedia. 
You  think  so?     I  don't. 

Masha. 

Of  course,  if  you  don't  love  her,  you  oughtn't 
to. 

Fedia. 

How  do  you  know  that? 

Masha. 
Maybe  I  know. 

Fedia. 

Give  me  a  kiss.  Now,  "  The  Flax,"  and  then 
let  us  stop. 

{The  Gipsies  sing.) 

Fedia. 

Wonderful !  Wonderful !  Oh,  never  to  wake 
up]     To  die  like  that  without  waking! 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        43 

ACT  II 

Scene  I 

Two  weeks  have  elapsed.  At  Lisa's. 

(Karenin  and  Anna  Pavlov- 
NA  are  sitting  in  the  dining-room. 
Sasha    enters   from    the    inner 
door.) 


Well? 


Karenin. 


Sasha. 


The  doctor  says  all  danger  is  over  now.     The 
only  thing  is  to  prevent  the  child  taking  cold. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
Poor  Lisa  is  quite  exhausted  with  all  this  anxiety. 

Sasha. 

He  says  it  is  a  sort  of  slight  angina.     What  is 
^hat?      {She  points  to  a  basket.) 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
Grapes.     Victor  brought  them. 

Karenin. 
Would  you  like  to  have  some? 


44       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Sasha. 

Lisa  like  grapes.  She  has  become  so  nervous 
of  late. 

Karenin. 

She  has  not  slept  these  two  nights,  nor  eaten 
anything. 

Sasha. 

(smiling.)      Neither  have  you. 

Karenin. 
That  is  quite  another  thing. 

Doctor. 

(entering  with  Lisa,  importantly.)  As  I  told 
you:  change  the  compress  every  half-hour,  If  the 
child  is  not  asleep.  If  he  is  asleep,  don't  disturb 
him.  No  painting  the  throat.  Keep  the  room 
warm,  and  — 

Lisa. 

And  If  he  has  another  fit  of  choking? 

Doctor. 

He  won't.  But,  anyhow,  if  It  happens,  spray 
his  throat.  Then  there  are  the  powders  to  give 
him.  One  the  first  thing  In  the  morning,  another 
at  night.      I  will  write  the  prescription. 


\ 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD         45 
Anna  Pavlovna. 
Won't  you  have  some  tea,  doctor? 

Doctor. 

No,  thanks.  My  patients  are  waiting  for  me. 
{He  sits  down  at  the  table.  Sasha  brings  him  pa- 
per and  ink.) 

Lisa. 

Then  you  are  quite  sure  it's  not  croup? 

Doctor. 
{smiling.)      Quite  sure.      {He  writes.) 

Karenin. 

•{to  Lisa.)  Have  some  tea  now.  And  the  best 
thing  will  be  for  you  to  go  and  rest.  Look  what 
you  are  like ! 

Lisa. 

I   breathe   again"  now.     But    it's   your   doing. 
You  are  a  true  friend.     {Presses  his  hand.    Sasha 
steps  aside,  visibly  annoyed.)      I  thank  you,  my 
dear  friend.     This  is  a  case  when  a  friend  — 

Karenin. 

I  have  not  done  anything.     You  have  nothing 
to  thank  me  for. 


46       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Lisa. 

Who  was  it  who  had  no  sleep  for  two  nights? 
Who  brought  the  very  best  doctor? 

Karenin. 

My  reward  is  that  the  child  is  out  of  danger. 
And  I  am  still  more  rewarded  by  your  kindness  — 
your  extreme  kindness. 

( They  again  shake  hands  and  he 
smiles,  showing  the  money  that  she 
has  left  in  his  hand.) 

Lisa. 

(smiling.)      That   is   the   doctor's    fee.     I   never 
know  how  to  give  It  to  him. 

Karenin. 
Nor  do  L 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
What  is  it  you  don't  know  how  to  do? 

Lisa. 

How  to  pay  the  doctor.  He  saved  what  to  me 
is  more  than  my  life,  and  I  have  to  repay  it  with 
money.  There  is  something  so  unpleasant  in  the 
idea. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        47 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

Leave   that   to    me.     I    will   do    it    all    right. 
There's  no  difficulty  whatever. 

Doctor. 

(rises  and  hands  the  prescription.)  Dissolve  each 
powder  in  a  tablespoonful  of  boiled  water,  stir  it 
and  .  .  .  {he  continues  to  give  his  directions 
to  Lisa,  while  Karenin  5/75  at  the  table  drinking 
tea.  Anna  Pavlovna  and  Sasha  step  for- 
ward.) 

Sasha. 

I  can't  stand  the  way  they  talk  to  each  other! 
She  behaves  as  if  she  were  in  love  with  him. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
I  should  not  wonder  if  she  were. 

Sasha. 

It's  perfectly  disgusting! 

( The  Doctor  shakes  hands  with 
the  family,  and  goes  out.  Anna 
Pavlovna  follows  him  to  the 
hall.) 

Lisa. 

{to  Karenin.)  He  is  such  a  sweet  child.  The 
moment  he  felt  better,  he  began  to  smile  and  to 


48        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

babble.     I  will  go  to  him.     But  I  am  sorry  to 
leave  you. 

Karenin. 
Have  some  tea  first.     Eat  something. 

Lisa. 

I  don't  want  anything.     I  feel  so  relieved  now 
all  this  anxiety  is  over.      {She  sobs.) 

Karenin. 

You  see  how  exhausted  you  are ! 

Lisa. 

I  am  so  happy.     Will  you  come  along  with  me 
to  see  the  child? 

Karenin. 
With  pleasure. 

Lisa. 

Then  come. 

{They  go  out  together.) 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

{entering  from  the  hall.  To  Sasha.)  Why  do 
you  look  so  gloomy?  T  handed  him  the  money 
all  right,  and  he  took  it  quite  simply. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        49 

Sasha. 

I  think  it's  odious  of  her!  She's  taken  him  to 
the  nursery.  Just  as  if  he  were  engaged  to  her  — 
or  her  husband ! 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

What  difference  does  it  make  to  you?  Do  you 
want  to  marry  him  yourself,  I  wonder? 

Sasha. 

To  marry  that  sign-post!  I  would  marry  any 
one  sooner  than  him.  Nothing  of  the  sort  ever 
entered  my  head.  I  simply  feel  disgusted  that, 
after  F'edia,  she  should  be  making  up  to  a  stran- 
ger. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

He  Is  not  a  stranger.  They  have  been  friends 
since  they  were  children. 

Sasha. 

They're  in  love  —  I  can  see  they  are,  by  the 
way  they  smile  and  make  eyes  at  each  other. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

No  wonder.  He's  been  such  a  help  now,  all 
during  the  baby's  illness  —  so  full  of  sympathy! 
He  did  all  he  could,  and  she  is  grateful  to  him. 


50        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

I  see  no  harm  In  her  being  in  love  with  Victor  and 
marrying  him. 

Sasha. 

It  would   be   odious,   disgusting!     Simply   dis- 
gusting ! 

(Karenin  and  Lisa  come  in 
again.  Karenin  takes  leave  with- 
out speaking.  Sasha  agitatedly 
leaves  the  room.) 

Lisa. 

{to    her    mother.)      What    is    the    matter    with 
Sasha? 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

I  don't  know,  I'm  sure. 

(Lisa  sighs.) 

Scene  II 

In  Afremov's  study.     Glasses  full  of  wine  are 
on  the  table. 

{Among  the  guests  are  Afre- 
MOV;  Fedia;  Stakhov,  a  man 
with  a  full  heard,  long  hair;  BuT- 
KEVICH,  who  is  clean  shaven; 
KoROTKOV,  Afremov's  toady.) 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        51 

KOROTKOV. 

And  I  tell  you,  he  can't  win.     La  Belle-Bois  is 
the  best  horse  in  Europe.      I  bet  you  she  is. 

Stakhov. 

Shut  up,  old  chap.      You  know  nobody  believes 
what  you  say,  and  nobody  will  take  your  bet. 

KOROTKOV. 

I  tell  you  your  Kartouche  will  be  beaten. 

Afremov. 

Don't  quarrel.      Let  me  settle  the  point  for  you. 
Ask  Fedia.     You  can  depend  upon  his  judgment. 

Fedia. 

They're  both  good  horses.      It  all  depends  on 
the  jockeys. 

Stakhov. 

That  jockey  Gusev  is  a  wrong  'un.     He  ought 
to  be  watched. 

KOROTKOV. 
{shouting.)      That's  not  true. 

Fedia. 

Look   here.     I'll   solve   the   problem    for  you. 
Who  won  the  Derby? 


52       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

KOROTKOV. 

I  know,  but  that  does  not  prove  anything.  It 
was  just  by  accident.  If  Cracus  hadn't  been  taken 
ill.     Now,  look  here  — 

{A  Man-Servant  enters.) 

Afremov. 

What  is  it? 

Servant. 

There's  a  lady  here  who  wishes  to  speak  to 
Fedor  Vasilievich. 

Afremov. 
Who  is  she? 

Servant. 
I  do  not  know..    A  real  lady,  sir. 

Afremov. 
Fedor,  a  lady  for  you. 

Fedia. 
(alar7ned.)      Who  is  she? 

Afremov. 
He  doesn't  know. 

Servant. 
Shall   I   show  her  into  the  drawing-room,   sir? 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        53 
Fedia. 
Wait.      I'll  go  and  see.      {He  goes  out.) 

KOROTKOV. 

Who  can  It  be?     Oh,  of  course,  Mashka. 

Stakhov. 
What  Mashka? 

KOROTKOV. 

That    gipsy-girl    Masha.     She's    simply    mad 
about  him. 

Stakhov. 

Nice  girl  she  is.     And  how  she  sings! 

Afremov. 

Beautiful  voice.     Tanlusha  and  she   are  won- 
derful.    Last  night  they  sang  with  Peter. 

Stakhov. 
What  luck  that  man  has! 

Afremov. 

What?     To  have  all  the  women  after  him? 
That's  not  much  of  a  blessing! 

KOROTKOV. 

I  hate  these  gipsy  women.     They're  so  vulgar. 


54       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

BUTKEVICH. 

Nonsense! 

KOROTKOV. 

I  would  give  you  the  whole  lot  of  them  for  one 
French  woman. 

Afremov. 

Oh,  you  and  your  aesthetic  views!  I  must  go 
and  see  who  the  woman  is.  {He  follows  Fedia 
out  of  the  room.) 

Stakhov. 

If  it  is  Masha,  bring  her  in.  Let  her  sing  us 
something.  The  gipsies  of  to-day  are  not  up  to 
the  old  level.  There  was  a  girl  —  Tania !  A 
devil  of  a  creature. 

BUTKEVICH. 

I  expect  they  are  just  the  same  as  they  were  be- 
fore. 

Stakhov. 

Nothing  of  the  sort.  Now  they've  taken  to 
singing  vulgar  ballads,  instead  of  the  genuine 
songs  they  used  to  in  the  old  days. 

BUTKEVICH. 

There  are  some  very  good  ballads. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD       55 

KOROTKOV. 

If  I  will  tell  them  what  to  sing;  I  bet  you  won't 
know  whether  it's  a  ballad  or  a  folk-song. 

Stakiiov. 
Betting  is  Korotkov's  only  line  of  thought. 

Afremov. 

(returning.)  The  lady  is  not  Masha,  gentlemen. 
And  she  must  be  shown  in  here  —  there  is  no  other 
place  for  Fedia  to  talk  with  her.  Let  us  go  to 
the  billiard-room. 

( They    all   rise    and   leave    the 
room.     Fedia  and  Sasha  enter.) 

Sasha. 

(timidly.)      Fedia,  forgive  me  if  my  intrusion  an- 
noys  you,   but   for  God's   sake  listen   to   what   I 
have  come  to  tell  you.      (Her  voice  trembles.) 
(Fedia  paces  up  and  down  the  room.) 

Sasha. 

(She  sits  down,  looks  at  him.)      Fedia,  do  come 
home! 

Fedia. 
Now   listen,    Sasha.     I    understand    you    very 


S6       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

well.  You  are  a  good  girl,  and  in  your  place  I 
should  do  just  like  you  —  try  to  mend  things.  But 
if  you  were  in  my  place  —  though  it's  rather  odd 
to  imagine  such  a  delicate,  sweet  girl  as  you  in  it 
—  If  you  were  in  my  place,  I  say,  you  would  have 
done  just  what  I  did  —  you  would  go,  and  not  be 
in  the  way  of  somebody  else. 

Sasha. 
In  the  way  of  somebody   else?     But   do  you 
Imagine  Lisa  can  live  without  you? 

Fedia. 

Certainly,   Sasha   dear,   she  can,  and  she  will. 
And  she  will  be  happy,  much  hapier  than  with  me. 

Sasha. 

Never. 

Fedia. 

You  are  mistaken.  {He  takes  her  hand  and 
holds  it.)  But  that  is  not  the  point.  What  is 
more  Important  is  that  I  cannot  live  the  old  life. 
If  you  take  a  piece  of  cardboard  and  bend  It  a 
hundred  times.  It  may  hold;  but  bend  just  once 
more  and  it  will  break.  That's  the  way  it  was 
with  Lisa  and  me.  I  cannot  look  into  her  eyes. 
And  she  cannot  look  in  mine.  Believe  me.  It 
hurts  us  both  too  much. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        57 

Sasha. 
No,  no! 

Fedia. 
You  say,  No;  but  you  know  I  am  right. 

Sasha. 

I  can  only  judge  by  imagining  what  It  would 
be  like  If  1  were  In  her  place,  and  you  told  me 
what  you  said  just  there.  It  would  be  awful  for 
me. 

Fedia. 
Yes,  for  you. 

(/^w    uncomfortable  pause.) 

Sasha. 
(rising.)      Must  it  be  as  you  say? 

Fedia. 
It  must. 

Sasha. 
Come  back,  Fedia!     Come  back! 

Fedia. 

You  are  so  kind,  Sasha  dear!  I  shall  always 
hold  you  dear  In  my  memory.  .  .  .  Good- 
bye, my  dear.  Let  me  kiss  you.  {He  kisses  her 
on  the  forehead.) 


58       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Sasha. 

(excited.)  No,  I  don't  say  good-bye  for  good. 
I  don't  believe  it's  all  over.  I  won't  believe  it! 
Fedia     .     . 

Fedia. 

Listen,  Sasha.  But  promise  you  will  not  tell 
anybody  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you  now.  Will 
you  give  me  your  word? 

Sasha. 
I  won't  tell  any  one, 

Fedia. 

Well,  the  truth  is  that,  although  I  am  her  hus- 
band, the  father  of  her  child,  I  am  nothing  to 
her.  .  .  .  Wait,  don't  interrupt  me.  Don't 
imagine  I  am  jealous.  I  am  not.  Not  in  the 
least.  First  of  all,  I  should  have  no  right  to  be; 
and  then  I  have  no  reason.  Victor  Karenin  is  her 
old  friend,  and  mine  too.  He  loves  her,  and  she 
loves  him. 

Sasha. 

No. 

Fedia. 

She  loves  him,  but  being  an  honest  woman,  she 
thinks  she  has  no  right  to  love  anybody  but  her 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        59 

husband.  And  yet  she  loves  him,  and  will  give 
way  to  her  feelings  for  him  when  this  obstacle 
{pointing  to  himself)  is  removed.  And  I  will  re- 
move it  —  so  that  they  may  be  happy.  {His  voice 
shakes.) 

Sasha. 
Fedia,  don't  talk  in  that  way. 

Fedia. 

You  know  quite  well  it  is  true.  I  shall  rejoice 
in  their  happiness.  It  is  the  very  best  thing  I 
could  do.  I  shall  not  go  back.  I  shall  give  them 
their  freedom.  Tell  them  that.  No,  don't  tell 
them  anything.  And  good-bye!  {He  kisses  her 
head  and  opens  the  door  for  her.) 

Sasha. 
Fedia,  how  I  admire  you. 

Fedia. 

Good-bye,  good-bye ! 

(Sasha  goes  out.) 

Fedia. 

{alone.)  That's  right,  that's  all  right.  {He 
rings  the  bell.  To  the  servant,  zvho  enters.)  Call 
your  master.      {alone.)      It  must  be  so. 


6o       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Fedia. 
Let  us  go. 

Afremov. 
(enters.)      Well,  have  you  settled  things? 

Fedia. 

Oh,  yes.     In  the  very  best  way.      Everything  is 
perfect  now.     Where  are  all  the  others? 

Afremov. 
They're  playing  billiards. 

Fedia. 
Let's  join  them,  then.      (They  go  out.) 


ACT  III 

Scene  I 

Anna  Dmitrievna  Karenina's  boudoir.  It 
is  a  room  of  elegant  simplicity,  full  of  all  kinds  of 
souvenirs. 

(She  is  fifty  years  old,  a  grande 
dame  who  tries  to  look  younger, 
and  likes  to  interlard  her  conversa- 
tion with  French  words.) 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        6i 

Anna      Dmitrievna,     Victor     Karenin's. 
mother,  is  writing  a  letter. 

Servant. 
{entering.)      Prince  Sergius  Dmitrievich. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

Well,  ask  hirn  in,  of  course.  {She  turns  and 
looks  into  a  mirror,  arranging  her  hair.) 

Prince  Abreskov. 

{entering.)      I    hope    I    am    not    in    the    way. 

{Kisses  her  hand.) 

{He  is  a  well-preserved  bach- 
elor of  sixty,  zvith  moustache.  The 
dignified  face  of  the  old  soldier  has 
a  very  sad  expression.) 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 
You  know  you  are  always  welcome.     And  to- 
day more  than  ever.     You  got  my  note? 

Prince  Abreskov. 
I  did  —  and  here  I  am. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

Oh,  my  dear  friend,  I  begin  to  lose  hope.  He 
is  bewitched,  positively  bewitched.  I  never 
thought  he  could  be  so  obstinate,  so  heartless  and 


62       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

indifferent  towards  me.     He  is  quite  changed  since 
that  woman  left  her  husband. 

Prince  Abreskov. 
How  do  matters  stand  now? 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 
Well,  he  wants  to  marry  her  at  all  costs. 

Prince  Abreskov. 
But  how  about  her  husband? 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 
He  consents  to  be  divorced. 

Prince  Abreskov. 
Oh!     Is  that  so? 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

Victor  is  willing  to  put  up  with  all  the  ugliness 
of  the  divorce  court.  Lawyers,  evidence  of  guilt. 
.  .  .  All  this  is  disgusting.  And  he  does  not 
mind  !  I  cannot  understand  it.  He  with  his  deli- 
cacy, his  timidity. 

Prince  Abreskov. 

He  is  In  love.  And  when  a  man  Is  truly  in 
love  — 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD       63 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

Yes,  but  In  our  time  love  was  a  pure  friend- 
ship which  lasted  a  lifetime.  Such  love  I  can  un- 
derstand and  value. 

Prince  Abreskov. 

Nowadays,  Ideal  love  does  not  exist  any  more. 
La  possession  de  I'dme  ne  leitr  sufjit  plus.  That 
is  a  fact,  and  we  cannot  change  it.  But  what 
about  Victor? 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

No,  he  Is  not  like  the  rest.  But  this  Is  posi- 
tively witchcraft.  He  is  changed,  I  tell  you. 
You  know  I  called  on  them  —  he  asked  me  to  —  I 
didn't  find  them  at  home,  and  I  left  a  card.  She 
asks  if  I  will  receive  her.  And  to-day  {she  looks 
at  the  watch)  about  two  —  It  is  nearly  that  now 
—  she  will  be  here.  I  promised  Victor  to  receive 
her,  but  you  may  Imagine  in  what  a  state  I  am. 
I  feel  quite  lost.  So,  true  to  my  old  habit,  I  have 
sent  for  you  to  come.  I  am  in  such  need  of  your 
help! 

Prince  Abreskov. 
You  are  very  good. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 
You  will  understand.     You  must  see  that  her 


64       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

visit  means  the  final  decision,  don't  you?  Victor's 
whole  future  depends  on  it.  I  must  either  refuse 
my  consent     .     .     .     but  how  can  I? 

Prince  Abreskov. 
Don't  you  know  her  at  all? 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

I  have  never  seen  her.  But  I  am  afraid  of  her. 
A  good  woman  cannot  leave  her  husband  —  and 
such  a  good  man  too.  He  is  Victor's  friend  —  did 
you  know  that?  He  often  came  to  us.  I  thought 
him  very  nice.  But  whatever  he  might  be,  what- 
ever wrong  he  has  done  her,  a  wife  ought  not 
to  leave  her  husband.  She  must  bear  her  cross. 
There  is  one  thing  I  can't  possibly  grasp:  how 
could  Victor,  with  his  religious  views,  make  up  his 
mind  to  marry  a  divorced  woman?  I  have  heard 
him  say  over  and  over  again  —  once  quite  lately 
to  Spitzin  —  that  divorce  is  not  consistent  with  the 
true  Christian  doctrine.  And  now  he  is  in  favour 
of  it.  If  she  has  been  able  to  fascinate  him  to  this 
point  .  .  .  !  I  am  afraid  of  her.  How  silly 
of  me  to  talk  all  the  time  like  this.  I  asked  you 
to  come  so  as  to  have  your  view  of  the  situation. 
What  do  you  think?  Tell  me.  Have  you  spoken 
to  Victor? 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        6s 

Princk  Abreskov. 

I  have.  And  my  opinion  is  that  he  loves  her. 
He's  already  got  into  the  habit  of  loving  her,  so 
to  speak.  Love  has  taken  hold  him.  He  is  a 
man  who  opens  his  heart  slowly  —  but  then  for 
good.  He  will  never  love  any  other  woman,  and 
he  could  not  be  happy  with  any  other  woman  but 
her. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

And  Varia  Kasanzeva,  who  would  gladly  have 
married  him  !  Such  a  nice  girl,  and  so  devoted  to 
him ! 

Prince  Abreskov. 

You  are  counting  your  chickens  before  they  are 
hatched.  That's  quite  out  of  question  now.  I 
think  the  only  thing  for  you  is  to  consent,  and  to 
help  him  to  marry. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

To  marry  a  divorced  woman!  And  suppose 
that  afterwards  he  were  to  meet  his  wife's  first 
husband  somewhere !  How  can  you  calmly  sug- 
gest such  a  thing!  Could  any  mother  wish  to  see 
her  only  son  —  and  such  a  son  —  married  like 
that? 

Prince  Abreskov. 

My  dear  friend,  it  cannot  be  helped.     Of  course 


66        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

It  would  be  nicer  if  he  married  a  young  girl  you 
know  and  you  like,  but  he  will  not.  Besides  — 
imagine  if  he  had  married  a  gipsy  girl  or  .  .  . 
And  Lisa  Protassova  is  a  very  nice  woman.  I 
have  met  her  at  my  niece  Nelly's.  She  is  a  very 
sweet,  kind,  loving,  moral  woman. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

Moral,  indeed!  A  woman  who  has  left  her 
husband ! 

Prince  Abreskov. 

How  unlike  you  to  speak  so!  How  cruel. 
Her  husband  is  one  of  those  men  of  whom  one 
may  say  that  they  are  their  worst  enemies.  But 
certainly  he  is  a  worse  enemy  of  his  wife  than  of 
himself.  He  is  a  weak  man,  a  perfect  wreck,  a 
drunkard.  He  has  squandered  his  own  fortune 
and  all  that  she  possessed;  she  has  a  child.  And 
you  condemn  her  for  having  left  such  a  man. 
And  besides,  it  was  not  she,  it  was  he  who  left  her. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

Oh,  the  ugliness  of  it  all!  And  that  I  should 
have  to  take  part  in  It! 

Prince  Abreskov. 
What  is  it  that  the  gospel  says? 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        67 
Anna  Dmitrievna. 

Yes,  I  know.  Forgive  us  as  we  forgive  those 
who  trespass  against  us.     But  this  Is  beyond  me! 

Prince  Abreskov. 

How  could  she  go  on  living  with  such  a  man? 
Even  If  she  had  not  loved  any  one  else  she  would 
have  had  to  leave  him.  She  had  to  do  It  for  her 
child's  sake.  Her  husband  himself,  a  clever  and 
kind  man  when  he  is  in  his  senses,  advised  her  to 
leave  him. 

(Victor  comes  in.  He  kisses 
his  mother  s  hand,  and  shakes 
hands  with  Prince  Abreskov.) 

Victor. 

Mother,  I  have  come  to  tell  you  that  Elizaveta 
Andreevna  will  be  here  presently.  I  will  tell  the 
servant  to  show  her  in.  There  is  only  one 
thing  I  ask  you.  If  you  are  still  opposed  to  my 
marrying  her  — 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 
{interrupting  him.)      Most  certainly  I  am. 

Victor. 

{continues  frowning.)      Then  don't  speak  about 
It,  I  beseech  you !      Don't  Inflict  a  refusal  upon  her. 


68        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 
Anna  Dmitrievna, 

We  shall  not  speak  about  that,  I  suppose. 
Anyhow,  I  shall  not  start  the  topic. 

Victor, 

Nor  will  she.     I  only  want  you  to  know  her. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

One  thing  I  cannot  understand:  how  do  you 
reconcile  your  wish  to  marry  Madame  Protassova, 
whose  husband  is  alive,  with  your  condemnation 
of  divorce  from  the  Christian  point  of  view?  You 
—  so  religious! 

Victor. 

Mother,  that  is  cruel!  Are  we  all  so  unim- 
peachable that,  in  this  complex  world,  there  is  no 
discrepancy  between  our  convictions  and  our  prac- 
tice?    Why  are  you  so  unkind  to  me,  mother? 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 
I  love  you.      I  want  you  to  be  happy! 

Victor. 
{to  Prince  A.breskov.)      Sergius   DmitrievichI 
Prince  Abreskov. 
I  don't  doubt  you  want  him  to  be  happy.     But 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        69 

grey  heads  like  ours  are  unable  to  know  what 
passes  in  the  minds  of  youth.  Least  of  all,  a 
mother  who  has  her  settled  ideas  about  her  son's 
happiness.     On  that  point  women  are  all  alike. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

Indeed  I  I  ought  to  have  known  you  would  all 
be  against  me.  Of  course  you  are  free  to  do  as 
you  like.     You  are  of  age.     But  it  will  kill  me. 

Victor. 

I  do  not  recognise  you.  It  is  worse  than  cruel 
to  talk  like  that. 

Prince  Abreskov. 

(to  Victor.)  Don't  talk  like  that,  Victor.  You 
know  that  your  mother  does  not  act  as  she  speaks. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

I  shall  speak  exactly  as  I  think  and  feel,  but 
without  hurting  her  feelings. 

Prince  Abreskov. 
I  am  quite  sure  of  that. 

Servant. 
(enters.)      Here   she   is. 

Victor. 
I'll  go.  • 


70      THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Servant. 

Elizaveta  Andreevna  Protassova. 

Victor. 

I'll  go,  mother.     I  beseech  you  — 

(Prince  Abreskov  m^5.) 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

Ask  the  lady  in.      {To   Prince  Abreskov.) 
Don't  go. 

Prince  Abreskov. 

I  thought  you  would  prefer  to  talk  with  her 
tete-a-tete. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

No,  I  am  afraid.  {Fussing  about.)  If  I  want 
to  be  with  her  alone  I  will  signal  to  you.  That 
depends  .  .  .  But  at  the  moment  I  should 
feel  uncomfortable  alone  with  her.  When  I  want 
you  to  leave  the  room  I  will  do  like  that.  {She 
makes  a  sign.) 

Prince  Abreskov.. 

I  shall  know.  I  am  sure  you  will  like  her. 
Only  be  justl 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

Oh,  you  are  all  against  me ! 

(Lisa,  in  hat  and  visiting  dress, 
comes  into  the  room.) 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD       71 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

(rising.)  I  was  so  sorry  you  were  not  at  home 
when  I  called.  It  Is  so  kind  of  you  to  come  to  see 
me. 

Lisa. 

I  did  not  expect  —  thank  you  so  much  for  wish- 
ing to  see  me. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

You  have  met  before,  I  believe?  (Pointing  to 
Prince  Abreskov.) 

Prince  Abreskov. 

Yes,  I  have  had  the  honour  of  making  Madame 
Protassova's  acquaintance.  (He  shakes  hands 
with  Lisa.  They  sit  down.)  I  have  heard  so 
much  about  you  from  my  niece  Nelly. 

Lisa. 

We  have  always  been  great  friends.  (Looking 
shyly  at  Anna  Dmitrievna.)  And  we  still  are. 
(To  Anna  Dmitrievna.)  I  did  not  expect  you 
would  want  to  see  me. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

T  knew  your  husband  very  well.  He  was  a 
great  friend  of  my  son's,  and  often  came  to  our 


72       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

house  before  he  left   for  Tambov,     I  believe  it 
was  there  he  married  you? 

Lisa. 
Yes,  we  were  married  there. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

But  afterwards,  when  he  came  back  to  Moscow, 
he  stopped  coming  to  see  me. 

Lisa. 
He  used  hardly  to  go  anywhere. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

And  he  never  brought  you  to  me. 

{An  awkward  silence.) 

Prince  Abreskov. 

The  last  time  I  saw  you  was  at  an  amateur  per- 
formance at  Denisov's.  It  was  a  charming  af- 
fair.    You  were  acting  in  the  play. 

Lisa. 

No  —  oh,  yes,  I  acted.  I  had  almost  forgotten. 
{Pause.)  Anna  Dmitrievna,  forgive  me  if  what 
I  am  going  to  say  displeases  you.  But  I  can't 
pretend;  T  am  really  unable  to.  I  came  because 
Victor   Mikhailovich    told   me     .     .     .     because 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        73 

.  .  .  he  told  me  you  would  like  to  see  me. 
.  .  .  But  It  is  better  if  you  tell  me.  .  .  . 
{Overpoivered  by  tears.)  I  am  very  unhappy, 
and  you  are  kind. 

Prince  Abreskov. 
I  think  I  had  better  go. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 
Yes,  go. 

Prince  Abreskov. 

Good-bye.      (He  shakes   hands   iv'ith   both   the 
ladies,  and  goes  out.) 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

Listen,  Lisa     ...     I  don't  know  your  fath- 
er's name  —     No,  no,  no,  that  doesn't  matter. 

Lisa. 
Andreevna. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 
No  matter.  Lisa!  I  pity  you,  I  sympathise 
with  you.  But  I  love  Victor.  He  is  all  I  love 
on  earth.  I  know  his  soul  as  if  it  was  my  own. 
He  is  proud.  He  was  proud  even  as  a  boy  of 
seven.  He  is  proud  not  of  his  name,  not  of  riches, 
but  proud  of  his  purity,  his  high  ideals.  He  never 
swerved  from  them.  He  is  as  pure  as  an  innocent 
girl. 


74       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Lisa. 
I  know. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

He  has  never  loved  a  woman  before.  You 
are  the  first.  I  don't  say  I  am  not  jealous  of  you 
—  I  am.  Yes,  I  am.  But  we  mothers  —  your 
son  is  still  a  baby,  you  can't  know  yet  —  we  are 
prepared  for  It.  I  was  prepared  to  surrender  him 
to  his  future  wife,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  not  to 
be  jealous.  But  I  expected  her  to  be  as  pure  as 
he  Is. 

Lisa. 
I     .     .     .     Do  you 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

Forgive  me.  I  know  it  is  not  your  fault.  I 
know  you  are  unhappy.  But  I  know  him.  Now, 
he  Is  ready  to  bear  anything,  and  he  will  bear  it 
without  ever  saying  a  word;  but  he  will  suffer. 
His  pride  will  be  wounded  and  will  suffer,  and  he 
will  never  be  happy. 

Lisa. 
I  have  thought  about  that. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 
Lisa,    dear!     You    are    such    a    clever,    good 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        75 

woman,  and  if  you  love  him  you  certainly  want 
his  happiness  more  than  your  own.  And  if  so, 
you  can't  wish  to  bind  him  so  that  he  would  be 
sorry  afterwards.  He  would  never,  oh  never, 
say  so,  but  he  would  be. 

Lisa. 

He  would  not,  I  know.  I  have  thought  so 
much  about  it,  and  have  asked  myself  what  I  ought 
to  do.  I  have  discussed  it  with  him  quite  openly. 
But  what  am  I  to  do  if  he  says  he  cannot  live 
without  me?  I  told  him,  let  us  be  friends,  but 
don't  bind  up  your  pure  life  with  mine,  which  is 
wretched.  But  he  does  not  see  it  from  the  same 
standpoint. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

Of  course,  he  would  not  at  the  moment. 

Lisa. 

Persuade  him  not  to  marry  me.  I  will  agree. 
I  only  want  his  happiness,  not  mine.  But  help 
me!  Don't  hate  me.  Let  us  join  in  making  him 
happy. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

I  think  I  love  you  already,  (She  kisses  her. 
Lisa  bursts  into  tears.)  And  yet  it  is  so  horrible. 
If  only  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  you  before  you 
married  — 


76        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Lisa. 

He  says  he  loved  me  then,  but  thought  It  wrong 
to  stand  in  the  way  of  another  man's  happiness. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

Oh,  how  unfortunate  it  all  is!  But  let  us  love 
each  other,  and  God  will  help  us  to  attain  what 
we  wish. 

Victor. 

(entering.)  Mother  dear!  I  have  heard  all  you 
have  been  talking  about.  I  knew  it  would  be  so. 
I  knew  you  would  love  her.  So  now  everything 
will  be  all  right. 

Lisa. 

I  am  sorry  you  were  listening.  If  I  had  known, 
I  should  not  have  spoken  like  that. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

But,  after  all,  nothing  is  decided  yet.  All  I  can 
say  is  that  I  would  have  been  very  happy  —  if  it 
had  not  been  for  all  these  sad  circumstances. 
(She  kisses  her.) 

Victor. 
Don't  change  your  mind,  please  —  that  is  all  I 
ask  you. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        77 

Scene  II 

A  room  in  a  cheap  flat;  a  bed,  writing-table, 
sofa  are  all  the  furniture.  Fedia  is  alone.  There 
is  a  knock  at  the  door.  A  Woman's  voice  is 
heard  outside: — 

Why  have  you  locked  yourself  in,  Fedor  Vasllle- 
vich?     Open  the  door,  Fedia. 

Fedia. 

{opening  the  door.)      I  am  so  glad  you  have  come. 
I  am  so  bored,  so  frightfully  bored, 

Masha. 
Why  didn't  you  come  to  us?     Drunk  again? 

Fedia. 
You  know,  I  — 

Masha. 
Oh,   what  a   fool   I   am  to  love  you  1 

Fedia. 
Masha  I 

Masha. 
Masha,  indeed!     If  you  cared  for  me  the  least 


78       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

bit,  you  would  have  been  divorced  by  now.  They 
want  it  too  —  you  know  they  do.  You  go  on 
saying  you  don't  love  her,  but  you  stick  to  her  all 
the  same.  You  don't  want  to  be  divorced.  I  can 
see  that. 

Fedia. 
You  know  why  I  don't. 

Masha. 

Nonsense!      People   are   perfectly    right   when 
they  say  there  is  no  depending  on  you. 

Fedia. 

What  can  I  say?      It  hurts,  your  saying  all  that. 
You  know  it  yourself. 

Masha. 
Nothing  can  hurt  you. 

Fedia. 

You  know  perfectly  well  that  my  only  joy  in  life 
is  in  your  love. 

Masha. 

My  love  Is  all  right.     But  you  —  you  don't  love 
me. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD       79 
Fedia. 
You  know  I  do.     I  don't  need  to  tell  you  that. 

Masha. 
Then  why  are  you  so  cruel  to  me? 

Fedia. 
Cruel?     I?     Can  you  say  that? 

Masha. 
{bursting  into  tears.)      You  are  so  unkind  1 

Fedia. 

(coming  close  to  her  and  embracing  her.)  Don't 
cry,  Masha!  Don't  cry.  Life  is  worth  living. 
Why  be  miserable?  It  Is  so  unlike  you,  my  beau- 
tiful one  I 

Masha. 
You  do  love  me? 

Fedia. 
Whom  else  could  I  love? 

Masha. 

Me,  only  me?     And  now  read  what  you  have 
written. 


8o        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Fedia. 
It  will  bore  you. 

Masha. 
Anything  you  write  must  be  fine. 

Fedia. 

Well,  listen.  {Reads.)  "  Late  in  the  autumn 
we  decided,  my  friend  and  I,  to  meet  at  the  Mari- 
gin  fort.  There  stood  a  castle  with  small  tur- 
rets. The  night  was  dark  and  warm.  The 
fog     .     .     ." 

(Ivan  Makarovich,  an  old 
gipsy,  and  his  wife,  Nastassia 
IvANOVNA  —  Masha's  parents 
—  enter.) 

Nastassia  Ivanovna. 

{coming  close  to  her  daughter.)  Oh,  you  are 
here,  you,  cursed  sheep!  {To  Fedia.)  No  dis- 
respect to  you,  sir.  {To  Masha.)  But  you  — 
how  can  you  treat  us  like  this? 

Ivan  Makarovich. 

{to  Fedia.)  It's  very  wrong  of  you,  sir,  to  ruin 
a  girl.      It's  wrong,  it's  ugly. 

Nastassia  Ivanovna. 
Put  on   your  shawl,   and  be  gone   from  here. 
How  did  you  dare  to  run  away  like  that?     What 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        8i 

am  I  to  say  to  the  others?      To  keep  company  with 
a  beggar !      He  can't  give  you  a  penny. 

Masha. 

I  have  not  done  anything  wrong.  1  love  Fedor 
Vasilievich  —  that  is  all.  I'm  not  abandoning  the 
others.      I  will  sing  as  before.     But  as  to  — 

Ivan  Makarovicii. 

Shut  up,  or  I  will  pull  your  hair  out.  You 
ought  to  respect  your  parents,  you  ought. —  It's 
wicked  of  you  to  do  that,  sir!  We  all  loved  you; 
we  pitied  you.  How  many  times  we  used  to  sing 
to  you  just  for  nothing!  And  that  is  how  you 
behave ! 

Nastassia  Ivanovna. 

You  have  ruined  my  daughter,  my  only  one;  my 
darling,  my  pearl,  my  priceless  treasure  !  Dragged 
her  down  into  the  mud,  that's  what  you  have 
done !     You've  got  no  fear  of  God  in  your  heart! 

Fedia. 

Nastassia  Ivanovna,  you  are  mistaken.  Don't 
think  me  wicked.  I  consider  your  daughter  just 
like  my  sister.  I  hold  her  honour  dear.  Don't 
be  afraid.  I  love  her,  that  is  true.  But  that 
can't  be  helped. 


82        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 
Ivan  Makarovich. 

Why  did  you  not  love  her  when  you  had  money? 
You  ought  to  have  paid  down  ten  thousand  roubles 
to  us,  and  then  you  could  have  had  her  without  any 
disgrace.  That  is  what  all  respectable  men  do. 
But  to  steal  her  away  like  that,  after  having  squan- 
dered all  you  had !     You  ought  to  be  ashamed,  sir. 

Masha. 

He  did  not  take  me  away,  I  came  to  him.  And, 
if  you  take  me  away  from  him  now,  I  will  come 
back.  I  love  him  —  that's  all.  Lock  me  up ! 
My  love  will  be  stronger  than  all  your  bolts.  I 
won't  obey  you. 

Nastassia  Ivanovna. 

Don't  be  cross,  Mashenka,  darling.  You  have 
done  wrong.     Now  do  come  with  us. 

Ivan  Makarovich. 

Shut  up,  Masha.  {He  takes  her  by  the  hand.) 
Good-bye,  sir. 

{All   three   go    out   together. 
Prince  Abreskov  comes  in.) 

Prince  Abreskov. 

Forgive  me.  I  have  been  —  quite  by  chance 
—  a  witness  of  this  unpleasant  Incident. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        83 

Fedia. 

With  whom  have  I  the  honour —  (Recognis- 
ing him.)      Oh,  Prince  Sergius  Dmitrievich ! 

Prince  Abreskov. 

I  have  been  the  witness  of  what  has  just  oc- 
curred. I  did  not  desire  to  hear,  but  as  I  did 
hear,  I  am  bound  in  duty  to  tell  you  so.  I  was 
shown  in  —  the  loudness  of  the  voices  evidently 
drowned  my  repeated  knocking  —  consequently  I 
had  to  wait  till  your  visitors  were  gone. 

Fedia. 

Oh,  that's  all  right.  Won't  you  sit  down?  I'm 
obliged  to  you  for  telling  me,  as  it  gives  me  an  op- 
portunity to  explain  to  you  what  it  was  all  about. 
What  you  think  of  me  does  not  in  the  least  con- 
cern me.  But  I  should  tell  you  this  girl,  a  young 
gipsy  singer,  has  done  nothing  to  deserve  the  scene 
you  witnessed.  She  is  as  pure  as  a  dove.  And 
my  only  relations  with  her  are  friendly  —  friendly, 
and  nothing  more.  Poetical  they  may  be  —  that 
does  not  affect  her  purity,  her  honour.  I  am  glad 
to  have  told  you  that.  But  tell  me,  what  Is  It  you 
want  of  me?     What  can  I  do  for  you? 

Prince  Abreskov. 
I  must  tell  you  first  of  all  — 


84       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Fedia. 

Forgive  me,  Prince.  My  position  In  society  Is 
now  such  that  my  having  known  you  slightly  long 
ago  does  not  entitle  me  to  a  visit  from  you  without 
some  special  reason  for  your  wanting  to  see  me. 
What  is  that  reason? 

Prince  Abreskov. 

You  are  quite  right —  I  will  not  deny  there  is. 
I  have  come  for  a  special  reason.  But  I  beg  you 
to  believe  that  whatever  change  there  may  be  In 
your  social  position,  it  does  not  affect  my  esteem 
for  you. 

•  Fedia. 

I  am  quite  sure  of  that. 

Prince  Abreskov. 

Well,  what  I  have  to  say  is  that  the  son  of  my 
old  friend,  Anna  Dmitrievna  Karenina,  and  she 
herself,  have  asked  me  to  apply  directly  to  you  in 
order  to  know  what  your  relations  are  now  —  if 
you  allow  me  to  speak  of  the  matter  —  with  your 
wife,    Elizaveta   Andreevna   Protassova. 

Fedia. 

My  relations  with  my  wife,  my  former  w'lie  I 
may  say,  have  entirely  ceased. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        85 
Prince  Abreskov. 

So  I  understood.  And  that  is  why  I  consented 
to  come  upon  so  delicate  a  mission. 

Fedia. 

Let  me  hasten  to  add  that  the  fault  is  not  hers, 
but  mine;  in  fact,  my  faults  are  endless.  She 
remains  what  she  always  has  been,  the  most  spot- 
less of  wives  and  of  women. 

Prince  Abreskov. 

Victor  Karenin,  and  especially  his  mother,  are 
anxious  to  know  what  you  intend  to  do  now.  I 
am   to   ask  you   about   that. 

Fedia. 

(excitedly.)  I  have  no  intentions  whatever.  I 
leave  my  wife  entirely  free.  I  wish  it  to  be  un- 
derstood that  I  will  never  stand  in  her  way  in  any- 
thing. I  know  she  loves  Victor  Karenin,  and  I 
have  no  objection  at  all.  I  think  him  rather  a 
bore,  but  a  perfectly  nice  and  respectable  man; 
and  I  am  sure  —  as  the  saying  is  —  that  she  will 
be  happy  with  him.  And  God  bless  them.  That 
is  all  I  have  to  say. 

Prince  Abreskov, 
Yes,  but  we  — 


86        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Fedia. 

(interrupting  him.)  Don't  imagine  I  am  in  the 
least  jealous.  I  said  Victor  was  a  bore,  but  I  take 
that  back.  He  is  an  excellent,  an  honest,  and 
moral  man  —  almost  the  exact  opposite  of  me. 
He  has  loved  her  from  her  youth  up.  Perhaps 
she  was  in  love  with  him  too  when  she  became 
my  wife.  This  has  been  her  real  love,  the  one  of 
which  people  are  often  not  aware.  And  I  think 
she  never  ceased  to  love  him,  though  being  an 
honest  woman,  she  did  not  confess  it  even  to  her- 
self. But  it  has  hovered  as  something  of  a 
shadow  over  our  married  life.  .  .  .  No, 
really,  I  think  I  ought  not  to  make  such  confessions 
to  you. 

Prince  Abreskov. 

Please  don't  stop  short  of  anything  you  can  tell 
me.  Believe  me,  my  real  object  in  coming  to  you 
was  just  to  gain  a  clear  insight  into  your  relations 
with  your  wife.  I  quite  understand  what  you 
mean.  I  see  that  a  sort  of  shadow,  as  you  have 
so  well  put  it,  may  have  existed. 

Fedia. 

Yes,  it  existed;  and  perhaps  that  is  why  I  was 
not  satisfied  with  my  life  at  home.  I  kept  trying 
to  find  satisfaction  elsewhere,  and  indulged  in  all 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        87 

sorts  of  passions.  Why  talk  about  it?  I  must  seem 
to  you  to  be  trying  to  exculpate  myself,  and  I 
don't  want  that.  Besides,  there  is  no  excuse  what- 
ever for  me.  I  have  been  a  bad  husband.  I  say 
I  have  been,  now  I  no  longer  am  her  husband.  I 
consider  her  entirely  free.  That  is  my  answer, 
which  you  may  take  back  to  them. 

Prince  Abreskov. 

That  is  very  well,  but  you  know  the  principles 
of  Victor  and  his  mother.  His  relations  with 
Elizaveta  Andreevna  have  been  throughout  most 
respectful  and  distant,  and  remain  so  now.  He 
has  tried  to  help  her  in  her  troubles  —  that  is  all. 

Fedia. 

Yes,  and  my  vices  have  only  helped  their  inti- 
macy to  ripen.  Well,  I  suppose  it  could  not  be 
helped. 

Prince  Abreskov. 

You  know  the  strict  religious  principles  of  Vic- 
tor and  his  mother.  I  don't  agree  with  them  on 
that  point.  I  have  broader  views.  But  I  under- 
stand and  respect  their  feelings.  I  understand 
that  he,  and  his  mother  even  more  than  he,  could 
not  think  of  his  union  with  a  woman  without  the 
consecration  of  the  church. 


88        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Fedia. 

Yes,  I  know  how  conservative  he  Is  in  that  re- 
spect. But  what  do  they  want?  Divorce?  I 
have  already  told  them  that  I  consent  to  be  di- 
vorced. But  to  plead  guilty,  and  pass  through  all 
the  lies  connected  with  the  proceedings  —  that 
would  be  hard  indeed. 

Prince  Abreskov. 

I  quite  agree  with  you.  Only  there  is  no  choice 
left.  We  must  manage  it  somehow.  But,  of 
course,  you  are  quite  right,  and  I  understand  you. 

Fedia. 

(pressing  his  hand.)  Thank  you,  my  dear  Prince, 
thank  you.  I  always  knew  you  were  kind  and 
just.  Tell  me,  what  ought  I  to  do?  Consider 
my  position.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  better  than  I 
really  am.  I  am  a  scoundrel.  But  there  are 
things  which  I  cannot  do  calmly.  I  cannot  tell 
lies. 

Prince  Abreskov.  . 

I  must  say  you  are  a  puzzle  to  me.  You  are 
a  gifted,  a  clever  man,  with  a  fine  sense  of  moral 
duty.  How  could  you  have  been  so  carried  away 
by  your  passions?  How  could  you  forget  what 
was  due  to  yourself?  How  has  your  life  come 
to  this  point?  Why,  why  have  you  ruined  your- 
self? 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD       89 

Fedia. 

(mastering  his  tears.)  For  the  past  ten  years  I 
have  led  my  present  dissipated  life,  and  for  the 
first  time  I  find  a  man  like  you  to  pity  me.  My 
friends,  rakes  like  myself,  pity  me,  women  pity  me; 
but  a  clever,  a  kind  man  like  you  .  .  .  ! 
Thank  you!  How  have  I  ruined  myself?  In 
the  first  place  —  alcohol.  It  is  not  that  I  enjoy 
the  taste  of  wine.  But  it  prevents  one  thinking. 
When  I  think,  or  when  my  senses  are  awake,  I 
feel  that  everything  is  different  from  what  it  ought 
to  be,  and  I  am  ashamed.  I  am  ashamed  now  in 
talking  to  you.  Anything  like  being  an  official, 
or  having  a  place  in  a  bank  —  seems  to  me  abso- 
lutely shameful.  Well,  the  moment  I  begin  to 
drink,  my  shame  is  gone.  And  then  music  —  not 
operas  or  Beethoven,  but  gipsy  songs  —  fills  you 
with  new  energy,  makes  you  live  a  new  life.  And 
when  a  pair  of  black  eyes  and  a  smiling  face  are 
near  you  —  But  the  more  entrancing  it  all  is, 
the  more  you  feel  ashamed  afterwards. 

Prince  Abreskov. 
And  work? 

Fedia. 
I    have    tried.     No    work    satisfies    me.     But 
don't  let  us  talk  about  me.     Anyhow,  I  thank  you 
with  all  my  heart. 


90       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 
Prince  Abreskov. 
Well,  what  answer  am  I  to  take  them? 

Fedia. 

Tell  them  I  am  willing  to  do  as  they  wish. 
They  want  to  marry,  and  there  must  be  nothing 
in  their  way.     That  is  so? 

Prince  Abreskov. 
Yes,  of  course. 

Fedia. 

I  will  see  to  it.  Tell  them  I  will;  they  may  rely 
on  me. 

Prince  Abreskov. 
When? 

Fedia. 

Wait  a  moment  —  let  us  say  they  will  be  free 
in  a  fortnight.     Will  that  do? 

Prince  Abreskov. 
May  I  say  that  you  give  them  your  word? 

Fedia. 

You  may.  Good-bye,  Prince.  Thank  you  once 
more. 

(Prince  Abreskov  goes  out.) 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD       91 

Fedia. 

(sits  a  long  while  silent,  then  smiles.)  Good, 
good!  That's  right.  That's  right.  Very  good 
Indeed. 


ACT  IV 

Scene  I 

A  private  room  in  a  restaurant.  Fedia  is 
shown  in  by  a  Waiter. 

Waiter. 

This  way,  sir.  You  will  be  all  by  yourself;  no 
one  will  disturb  you.  I  will  bring  you  some  paper 
at  once. 

Ivan  Petrovich  Alexandrov. 

{appearing  in  the  doorway.)      Protassov,  do  you 
mind  if  I  come  in? 

Fedia. 

{very  serious.)      You   may,   if  you   like.     But   I 
am  busy,  and  —     All  right,  come  in. 

Ivan  Petrovich. 

You  are  going  to  write  an  answer  to  their  de- 
mands.    I  will  tell  you  what  you  ought  to  tell 


92        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

them.  Don't  you  spare  them.  To  say  straight 
out  what  you  mean,  and  to  act  resolutely;  that's 
my  system. 

Fedia. 

{to  the  zva'iter.)      A  bottle  of  champagne. 

{The  Waiter  goes  out.) 

Fedia. 

{taking  a  revolver  out  of  his  pocket  and  putting  it 
on  the  table.)      Wait  a  bit. 

Ivan  Petrovich. 

What's  that?  Going  to  shoot  yourself?  Of 
course!  Why  not?  I  understand  you.  They 
mean  to  humiliate  you,  and  you  will  show  them 
who  you  are  —  put  a  bullet  through  your  head  and 
crush  them  by  your  magnanimity.  I  understand 
you.  I  understand  everything  and  everybody,  be- 
cause I  am  a  genius. 

Fedia. 

Yes,  of  course.     But  — 

{The  Waiter  returns  with  ink 
and  paper.) 

Fedia. 

{putting  a  napkin  over  the  revolver.)      Open  the 
bottle.      {The    Waiter    opens    the    bottle^    then 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        93 

goes.)  Let  us  have  a  drink  first.  {They  drink. 
Fedia  sits  down  and  begins  to  write  a  letter.) 
Wait  a  moment. 

Ivan  Petrovich. 

I  drink  to  your  - —  great  journey.  I  am  above 
that.  I  won't  try  to  dissuade  you.  Life  and 
death  are  all  the  same  to  me.  I  die  in  life,  and  I 
live  in  death.  You  want  to  kill  yourself,  so  that 
those  two  may  be  sorry  for  it  and  miss  you  badly. 
And  I  —  I  will  kill  myself  for  the  world  to  realise 
what  it  has  lost.  I  won't  hesitate;  I  won't  con- 
sider and  reconsider  it.  I  will  just  take  the  re- 
volver {snatching  the  revolver  from  the  table.) 
One,  two  —  and  all  will  be  over.  But  the  right 
moment  has  not  yet  come.  {He  puts  the  revolver 
back.)  And  why  should  I  instruct  them?  They 
ought  to  understand  things  by  themselves.  Oh, 
you. 

Fedia. 

{writing.)      Wait  a  moment. 

Ivan  Petrovich. 

Contemptible  creatures,  who  fuss  about  and  un- 
derstand nothing!  Nothing  whatever!  I'm  not 
speaking  to  you  —  I'm  only  expressing  my 
thoughts  to  myself.  And  what  is  it  that  humanity 
is  in  need  of?     Not  much;  only  to  prize  its  gen- 


94       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

iuses  instead  of  persecuting  them  as  it  does,  and 
making  their  life  a  perpetual  agony.  No;  I  won't 
be  your  plaything  any  more.  I  w.ill  denounce  you 
all,  hypocrites  that  you  are ! 

Fedia. 

{having  finished  his  letter,  drinks  a  glass  of  cham- 
pagne, and  reads  what  he  has  written.)  Now 
please,  go ! 

Ivan  Petrovich. 

Go?  All  right,  I'll  go.  Anyhow,  I  don't  hold 
you  back  from  what  you  have  decided  to  do.  I 
shall  do  so  too.  But  the  time  has  not  yet  come. 
I  only  wanted  to  tell  you  — 

Fedia. 

All  right,  you  can  tell  me  later.  Now  listen: 
will  you,  please,  give  this  to  the  manager  {handing 
him  some  money)  ^  and  ask  him  for  a  letter  and  a 
parcel  that  have  probably  been  sent  here  in  my 
name?     Will  you  do  that? 

IvAN  Petrovich. 

I  will.  Then  you  promise  to  wait  for  me?  I 
will  tell  you  something  very  important,  something 
the  like  of  which  you  will  not  hear,  neither  in  this 
world  nor  in  that  to  come  —  at  least,  not  till  I  get 
there.     Am  I  to  give  him  all  this  money? 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD       95 

Fedia. 

Let  him  take  what  I  owe  him. 

(Ivan  Petrovich  goes  out.) 

Fedia. 

{sighs  with  a  sense  of  relief,  locks  the  door,  takes 

the  revolver,  cocks  it,  puts  it  close  to  his  temple, 

then  shivers,  and  lets  his  hand  drop  with  great 

precaution.      Groans.)      No,   I  cannot,   I  cannot! 

{There  is  a  knock  at  the  door.) 

Who  is  there  ? 

Masha's  voice  outside. 
It  is  I. 

Fedia. 

Who:   "I?"     Oh,    Masha!      {He   opens   the 
door.) 

Masha. 
{entering.)  I  called  at  your  place,  then  at  Pop- 
pov's,  at  Afremov's,  and  then  I  thought,  at  last, 
I  might  find  you  here.  {Seeing  the  revolver.) 
Ah,  what's  that?  You  fool!  You  regular  fool! 
Could  you  really  — 

Fedia. 
No,  I  could  not. 

Masha. 

And  I?     Am  I  something  to  you  or  not?     You 


96       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

heartless  wretch!  You  have  no  pity  for  me!  It 
is  a  great  sin,  Fedor  Vasilievich,  to  treat  me  like 
that.  A  great  sin!  That  is  what  I  get  now  for 
all  my  love ! 

Fedia. 

I  wanted  to  release  them.  I  promised  to.  And 
I  can't  tell  lies. 

Masha. 

And  what  about  me? 

Fedia. 

Oh,  you !  You  would  have  felt  it  a  deliverance 
too.  Is  it  better  for  you  to  go  on  being  so  mis- 
erable on  account  of  me? 

Masha. 
Of  course  it  is.     I  cannot  live  without  you. 

Fedia. 

And  with  me  your  life  is  no  life  at  all.  When 
I  was  dead,  you  would  have  cried  over  me,  but 
after  a  while  you  would  feel  much  the  better  for 
my  loss. 

Masha. 

I  shouldn't  have  cried  at  all.  The  devil  may 
take  you  for  all  I  care,  if  you  have  no  pity  for  me. 
{She  bursts  into  tears.) 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD        97 
Fedia. 

Masha,  darling  1  I  only  thought  it  would  have 
been  better. 

Masha. 
Better  for  you,  I  dare  say. 

Fedia. 

{smiling.)      Why  for  me?     I  was  going  to  kill 
myself. 

Masha. 

It's  just  selfishness,  that's  all.  But  I  wish  I 
knew  what  you  wanted. 

Fedia. 
What?     A  great  many  things. 

Masha. 

Well,  what? 

Fedia. 

First  of  all,  I  must  keep  my  promise.  All 
alone,  this  is  too  much  for  me.  How  can  I  tell 
lies?  How  can  I  stand  all  the  ugliness  of  the  di- 
vorce?    How  can  I? 

Masha. 
There  you  are  right.     It  is  ugly.     I  myself  — 


98        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Fedia. 

And  then  they  have  to  be  delivered  in  some 
way  or  other.  No  doubt  of  that.  My  wife  and 
he  must  be  free.  They  are  kind,  good  people, 
both  of  them.  Why  must  they  suffer?  That  is 
my  second  reason. 

Masha. 

I  don't  think  she's  as  kind  as  that,  if  she  has  for- 
saken you. 

Fedia. 

It  was  all  my  fault,  not  hers. 

Masha. 

Your  fault,  indeed !  Everything  is  your  fault 
—  of  course,  she  is  an  angel.  Well,  what  else  is 
there? 

Fedia. 

Well,  this.  You  are  a  good  girl  —  yes,  you 
are.     And  if  I  live,  I  shall  make  you  miserable. 

Masha. 

That  is  no  concern  of  yours.  I  am  lost  anyhow. 
I  know  that. 

Fedia. 
(sighing.)      And  the  chief,  the  very  chief  reason, 
lies  in  myself.      You  think  I  don't  see  that  I  am 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD       99 

good  for  nothing,  a  burden  to  everybody  and  to 
myself  too,  as  your  father  said.     I  am  no  good. 

Masha. 

Nonsense !  You  won't  get  me  to  leave  you. 
I  shall  stick  to  you,  and  there  is  an  end  of  it. 
And  as  to  your  leading  a  bad  life,  drinking  and 
smoking  —  you  are  a  living  soul.  Change;  give 
it  all  up. 

Fedia. 
It's  easy  for  you  to  say  it. 

Masha. 
Do  as  I  say. 

Fedia. 

When  I  look  at  your  face,  I  think  I  could  do 
everything  you  ask  me. 

Masha. 

And  you  will.  You  will  do  it  all.  (She  sees 
the  letter.)  What  is  that?  You've  written  to 
them.     What  have  you  said? 

Fedia. 

I  wrote  what  I  had  to.  (He  takes  the  letter, 
is  about  to  tear  it.)      Now  It  is  of  no  use. 


loo     THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Masha. 

(snatching  the  letter  from  him.)  You've  written 
that  you  were  going  to  kill  yourself?  Did  you 
say  you  would  shoot  yourself,  or  just  kill  yourself, 
without  saying  how? 

Fedia. 
I've  written  that  I  won't  live  any  longer. 

Masha. 

Give  me  that  letter.  Have  you  read  the  fa- 
mous novel,  "  What  are  We  to  Do?  " 

Fedia. 
I  think  I  have. 

Masha. 

It's  not  an  entertaining  book,  I  must  say,"  but  one 
thing  I  liked  in  it.  Do  you  remember  that  man 
—  what  is  his  name?  Ramanov  —  who  made- 
believe  he  was  drowned?  You  can't  swim,  can 
you? 

Fedia. 

No. 

Masha. 

Very  good,  then.  Give  me  your  coat.  Give 
me  your  notebook,  and  all  those  things. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD       loi 
Fedia. 


What  an  Idea ! 


Masha. 


No,  wait.  Let  us  go  home,  and  you  will  put 
on  other  clothes. 

Fedia. 
But  that  will  be  a  fraud. 

Masha. 

Let  it  be  a  fraud.  You  went  to  have  a  bathe 
in  the  river;  you  left  your  clothes  on  the  bank. 
The  notebook  and  this  letter  will  be  found  in  your 
pocket. 

Fedia. 

And  then? 

Masha. 

Then?  Then  we'll  clear  out,  and  will  begin 
a  new  and  happy  life. 

Ivan  Petrovich. 
(returning.)      I  say!     May  I  take  the  revolver? 

Masha. 

Yes,  take  it.     We  are  off. 


102      THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Scene  II 
The  drawing-room  at  Lisa  Protassova's. 

Karenin. 

He  promised  so  definitely  that  I  was  sure  he 
would  keep  his  word. 

Lisa. 

I  feel  ashamed  to  say  it,  but  really,  hearing  of 
that  gipsy  girl  has  made  me  feel  quite  free  from 
him.  Don't  think  I  was  jealous.  No,  I  simply 
felt  free.  And  —  I  don't  know  how  to  put  it 
into  words,  Victor  Mikhailovich  — 

Karenin. 

{smiling.)      Why  do  you  speak  to  me  in  that  for- 
mal way? 

Lisa. 

Well  then,  Victor.  But  don't  interrupt  me.  I 
want  to  tell  you  exactly  how  I  feel.  What  dis- 
tressed me  most  of  all  was  that  I  somehow  felt  I 
loved  two  men  at  the  same  time.  It  seemed  to 
me  so  wicked,  so  frightfully  immoral. 

Karenin. 
Immoral!     You  immoral! 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      103 
Lisa. 

But  since  I  have  come  to  know  that  there  was 
another  woman  he  loved,  and  that  he  has  no  more 
need  of  me,  I  feel  quite  free,  I  know  now  that  I 
can  tell  you  truly  that  I  love  you,  and  you  alone. 
Now  my  mind  is  perfectly  clear.  I  only  suffer 
from  my  position.  This  divorce  is  so  awful.  And 
how  agonising  to  wait  for  It! 

Karenin. 

All  that  will  be  over  presently.  He  has  prom- 
ised to  do  all  that  is  necessary;  and  besides,  I 
asked  the  secretary  of  the  Synod  to  call  on  him 
with  the  petition,  and  not  to  go  before  he  has 
signed  it.  If  I  did  not  know  him  as  well  as  I  do, 
I  should  have  thought  he  was  dragging  the  whole 
business  out  on  purpose. 

Lisa. 

Oh  no.  Indeed  he  is  not.  It  is  only  that  he  is 
so  weak  and  so  honest.  He  was  always  so.  He 
hates  saying  what  is  untrue.  But  T  am  sorry  you 
have  sent  him  money.  You  ought  not  to  have 
done  that. 

Karenin. 

I  had  to.  Want  of  money  for  expenses  would 
have  meant  further  delay. 


T04     THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Lisa. 
Yes,  but  it  is  so  unpleasant. 

Karenin. 
I  don't  thinlc  he  has  any  right  to  be  fastidious. 

Lisa. 
What  egoists  we  are  becoming. 

Karenin. 

That  is  true  —  but  then,  it  is  partly  your  fault. 
You  made  me  wait  so  long,  you  have  driven  me 
to  such  despair,  that  now  I  can't  help  saying  how 
happy  I  am.  Happiness  is  very  selfish.  That  is 
your  fault,  darling. 

Lisa. 

Do  you  think  it  is  only  you  who  feel  happy? 
I  do  too.  I  am  full  of  bliss,  overwhelmed  by  it. 
Now  my  boy  has  recovered,  and  your  mother  is 
fond  of  me,  and  you  —  and  what  makes  my  great- 
est joy  —  I  love  you  so  dearly. 

Karenin. 

Do  you?  You  won't  have  any  regrets?  You 
won't  go  back  on  your  decision? 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      105 
Lisa. 

No.  Ever  since  that  day  I  have  been  a  changed 
being. 

Karenin. 

You  won't  change  back  again? 

Lisa. 

Never,  never.  My  only  wish  is  that  you  should 
forget  the  past  as  completely  as  I  have  done. 

(  The  Nurse  enters  with  the  boy, 
who  goes  to  his  mother.  She  takes 
him  on  her  knees.) 

Karenin. 
What  a  miserable  thing  man's  nature  is! 

Lisa. 
Why  do  you  say  that?      {She  kisses  the  child.) 

Karenin. 

When  you  married,  and  I  heard  about  it  on  my 
return  from  abroad  and  was  so  unhappy  because 
I  had  lost  you,  it  was  at  least  a  great  joy  to  learn 
that  you  just  remembered  me.  That  was  enough 
for  me.     After  that,  when  we  became  friends  and 


io6      THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

you  were  kind  to  me  —  when  I  felt  that  there  was 
just  a  spark  of  something  more  than  mere  friend- 
ship in  our  relations  —  I  was  almost  happy.  I 
was  only  afraid  —  and  I  suffered  from  it  a  good 
deal  —  that  it  was  unfair  to  Fedia.  But  as  I  was 
firmly  convinced  there  could  not  be  anything  more 
than  pure  friendship  between  me  and  the  wife  of 
my  friend  —  and  besides,  I  knew  what  you  were 
—  I  was  not  greatly  disturbed.  On  the  whole  I 
was  content.  Then,  when  Fedia  began  to  cause 
you  so  much  trouble,  and  I  felt  that  I  was  your 
support  and  that  you  somehow  feared  my  friend- 
ship, I  was  completely  happy,  and  a  vague  hope 
arose  In  my  soul.  And  when  Fedia  became  quite 
impossible  and  you  resolved  to  leave  him,  when  I 
told  you  for  the  first  time  I  loved  you  and  you  did 
not  say  "  No,"  but  left  me  in  tears,  then  my  hap- 
piness was  complete.  If  anybody  had  asked  me 
then  what  I  desired  more,  I  should  have  answered. 
Nothing.  But  after  that,  the  possibility  arose  of 
uniting  my  life  with  yours;  my  mother  grew  fond 
of  you,  my  hope  began  to  be  realised.  You  told 
me  you  loved  me  before,  and  you  go  on  loving  me; 
now  you  say  he  does  not  exist  for  you  and  you  love 
only  me  —  what  else  could  I  wish?  But  no,  just 
now  I  suffer  because  of  the  past.  I  wish  it  had 
not  existed,  I  wish  there  were  nothing  that  could 
remind  me  of  him. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      107 

Lisa. 
{reproachfully.)      O  Victor! 

Karenin. 

Forgive  me,  Lisa.  If  I  tell  you  all  this,  it  is 
because  I  ought  not  to  have  a  thought  that  I  hide 
from  you.  I  tell  you  to  show  you  how  bad  I  am; 
to  show  you  that  I  know  I  must  overcome  such 
feelings.  And  I  have  already  overcome  them. 
I  love  him. 

Lisa. 

I  am  so  glad.  I  did  all  I  could.  And  I  can't 
help  it  if  my  heart  underwent  the  change  that  you 
longed  for.  There  is  nothing  left  in  it  —  except 
you. 

Karenin. 

Nothing  but  me? 

Lisa. 
Nothing.      Or  else  I  would  not  say  so. 

Servant. 
{entering.)      Mr.  Vosnessensky. 

Karenin. 
Oh,  he  must  have  Fedia's  answer. 


io8      THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Lisa. 

{to  Karenin.)      Ask  him  in. 

{The  Servant  goes  out.) 

Karenin. 

{rising  and  going  to  the  door.)      You  see,  the  an- 
swer has  come  at  once. 

Lisa. 

{passing  the  child  to  the  NuRSE.)      I  can  hardly 
believe,  Victor,  that  It  will  be  settled  as  we  wish. 

{She   kisses   the   child.     NuRSE 
takes  it  away.) 

(VosNESSENSKY  enters.) 


Karenin. 


Well? 


Vosnessensky. 
He  was  not  In. 

Karenin. 
Not  In?     Then  the  petition  Is  not  yet  signed? 

Vosnessensky. 

No;  It  Is  not.  But  there  Is  a  letter  from  him, 
addressed  to  you  and  Elizaveta  Andreevna. 
{He  takes  a  letter  out  of  his  pocket  and  gives  it 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      109 

to  Karenin.)  I  called  at  his  house,  and  was  told 
that  he  had  gone  to  a  restaurant.  They  gave  me 
the  address.  I  went  there  and  found  Fedor  Vas- 
ilievich,  who  asked  me  to  call  for  the  answer  in 
an  hour.      I  called  and  — 

Karenin. 

This  is  too  bad!  He  is  trying  again  to  gain 
time  by  inventing  all  sorts  of  excuses.  How  low 
he  has  sunk! 

Lisa. 

Read  the  letter.     What  does  he  say? 

(Karenin  opens  the  letter.) 

VOSNESSENSKY. 

Do  you  want  me  any  more? 

Karenin. 

No.  Good-bye.  I  thank  you  for — (He 
stops  in  the  middle  of  the  sentence,  amazed  by 
what  he  reads  in  the  letter.) 

(VOSNESSENSKY  goeS  OUt.) 

Lisa. 
What  is  the  matter?     What  is  in  that  letter? 

Karenin. 
Horrible!     Horrible! 


no      THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Lisa. 
(rushing  to  seize  the  letter.)      Read  it  to  me  I 

Karenin. 

{reading.)  "  Lisa  and  Victor,  I  write  to  you 
both.  I  am  not  going  to  lie,  and  call  you  '  dear  ' 
and  the  like.  I  cannot  master  a  feeling  of  bitter- 
ness; I  cannot  help  reproaching  —  not  you,  of 
course,  but  myself  —  when  I  think  of  you,  of  your 
love,  your  happiness.  And  I  am  wretched,  be- 
cause that  is  an  accusation  of  myself.  I  know 
Victor.  I  know  that,  in  spite  of  my  being  the  hus- 
band, it  is  I  who  am  the  intruder.  I  stood  in 
your  way,  I  am  the  cause  of  all  your  troubles. 
And  yet  I  cannot  help  feeling  bitter  and  disliking 
both  of  you.  At  a  distance  I  love  you  both,  par- 
ticularly Lisa,  darling  Lisa- — but  when  I  think  of 
you  closely,  I  feel  worse  than  Indifferent.  I  know 
I  am  wrong,  but  I  cannot  change." 

Lisa. 
What  is  all  that  for? 

Karenin. 

{continuing.)  "  But  all  this  is  not  to  the  point. 
What  I  am  going  to  tell  you  is  this:  a  change  in 
my  feelings  has  made  me  fulfil  your  wish  in  a  dif- 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      1 1 1 

ferent  way  from  what  you  desired.  To  lie,  to 
act  a  disgusting  comedy,  to  bribe  the  consistory  of- 
ficials—  the  ugliness  of  all  that  is  distasteful  to 
me.  I  am  a  bad  man  myself,  but  not  in  that  way. 
I  cannot  be  a  party  to  such  low,  dirty  tricks.  I 
simply  am  unable  to.  The  other  issue  on  which  I 
have  decided  is  the  very  simplest:  you  must  marry 
—  that  is  the  only  way  for  you  to  be  happy.  I  am 
in  your  way  —  consequently,  I  must  disappear." 

Lisa. 
{snatching  Karenin's  hand.)      Victor! 

Karenin. 

{reading.)  "  I  must  disappear.  And  so  I  will. 
When  this  letter  reaches  you  I  shall  be  no  more. 
P.S. —  I  am  sorry  you  have  sent  me  money  for  di- 
vorce expenses.  This  is  unpleasant,  and  unlike 
you.  But  that  cannot  be  mended  now.  I  have 
done  so  many  shabby  things  in  my  life;  well,  now 
it's  your  turn  for  once  in  a  way.  The  money  shall 
be  sent  back  to  you.  The  way  I  have  found  to 
settle  things  is  much  shorter  and  cheaper,  and  it  is 
the  surest  one.  I  ask  you  only  not  to  be  angry 
with  me,  and  not  to  think  badly  of  me.  And  there 
is  one  thing  more:  I  know  a  poor  man,  the  watch- 
maker Eugene.      Could  you  help  him?     He  is  a 


112       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

weak  man,  but  very  honest  and  good.     Good-bye. 
Fedla." 

Lisa. 

He  has  killed  himself! 

Karenin. 

(rings  the  bell  and  runs  to  the  hall.)      Ask  Mr. 
Vosnessensky  to  come  back. 

Lisa. 

I  knew  that  would  be  the  end.  Fedla !  Fedia 
darling! 

Karenin. 
Lisa  I 

Lisa. 

It  is  not  true  I  ceased  to  love  him !  I  love  him 
alone,  and  nobody  else.  And  I  have  brought  him 
to  his  end.     Leave  me  alone! 

(Vosnessensky  returns.) 

Karenin. 

Where  is  Fedor  Vasilievich?  What  did  they 
tell  you? 

Vosnessensky. 

They  told  me  he  had  gone  out  in  the  morning, 
leaving  this  letter,  and  had  not  come  back. 


=0 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      113 

Karenin. 
I  must  find  out.      I  leave  you,  Lisa. 

Lisa. 

Don't  be   angry  with   me.      I   can't   lie   either. 
Leave  me  now.     Try,  try  to  find  out. 

ACT  V 

Scene  I 

A  dirty  room  in  a  cheap  restaurant. 

{People  are  sitting  around  the 
table,  drinking  tea  and  vodka. 
Near  the  front  a  small  table,  at 
which  is  sitting  Fedia.  He  is  in 
rags,  and  has  fallen  very  low.  By 
his  side  is  Petushkov,  a  delicate, 
keen-faced  man,  with  long  hair, 
spiritual  face.  Both  are  slightly 
tipsy.) 

Petushkov. 
I  quite  understand.     This  is  real  love.     Well, 
go  on. 

Fedia. 
Of  course  we  could  expect  a  girl  of  our  class  to 
feel  like  that,  to  sacrifice  everything  for  the  man 


114     THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

she  loves.  But  this  girl  is  a  gipsy,  educated  to 
care  only  for  money  and  to  squeeze  it  out  of  every 
one.  And  yet  she  has  this  pure  disinterested  love. 
She  gives  everything  without  asking  for  anything 
in  return.  It's  the  contrast  of  it  that  strikes  me 
most. 

Petushkov. 

Yes,  that's  what  we  painters  call  "  les  valeurs." 
To  produce  the  exact  impression  of  scarlet,  you 
must  have  green  round  it.  Well,  that  is  not  the 
point.      I  understand. 

Fedia. 

The  only  good  I  have  done  in  life  is  that  I  have 
not  taken  advantage  of  her  love.  And  do  you 
know  why? 

Petushkov. 

Was  it  because  you  pitied  her? 

Fedia. 

No,  no.  I  did  not  pity  her.  But  I  had  a  sort 
of  admiration  for  her.  And  when  she  used  to  sing 
—  oh,  how  wonderfully  she  sang,  and  probably 
sings  now !  —  not  only  then,  but  always,  I  looked 
up  to  her.  I  have  not  ruined  her  life,  simply  be- 
cause I  loved  her  truly.  And  now  she  is  simply 
a  dear,  a  very  dear  memory  to  me.      {He  drinks.) 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      115 
Petushkov. 
I  understand.     You  are  a  true  Idealist. 

Fedia. 

Now  listen.  I  have  had  other  passions  in  my 
life.  Once  I  was  very  much  in  love  with  a  pretty 
woman  —  basely,  vilely,  like  a  dog.  She  gave  me 
a  rendezvous.  I  did  not  go.  And  why?  Be- 
cause of  her  husband;  I  felt  I  could  not  behave 
meanly  to  him.  The  strange  thing  is  that  when  I 
remember  that  I  want  to  feel  glad,  and  to  be  sat- 
isfied with  myself  for  having  behaved  like  an  hon- 
est man;  instead,  I  repent  as  if  I  committed  a  sin. 
With  Masha  it  is  just  the  contrary.  I  rejoice  at 
not  having  polluted  my  love.  However  low  I  may 
fall,  for  whatever  mean  trifles  I  sell  my  life, 
though  I  am  covered  with  vermin  and  mange, 
this  diamond  will  remain  untarnished,  this  ray  of 
sunlight  will  shine  for  ever  in  my  soul. 

Petushkov. 
I  understand.     Where  is  she  now? 

Fedia. 

T  don't  know.  I  don't  want  to  know.  All  that 
belongs  to  the  past.  I  don't  want  to  mix  it  with 
my  present  life. 


ii6     THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

{At  the  table  behind  them  a 
Woman  screams.  The  Manager 
comes  with  a  policeman,  and  they 
take  her  away.  Fedia  and  Pet- 
USHKOV  watch  them,  listen,  and  are 
silent.) 

Petushkov. 

{when  all  is  silent  again.)      Yes,  your  life  is  a 
very  wonderful  one. 

Fedia. 
Oh  no,  it  is  quite  simple.  In  our  class  —  the 
one  in  which  I  was  born  —  three  courses  only  are 
open  to  a  man;  the  first  is  to  go  into  the  govern- 
ment service,  to  make  money  and  to  increase  the 
ugliness  of  the  life  round  you.  This  was  disgusting 
to  me,  or  perhaps  I  was  simply  unfit  for  it;  but 
disgust  was  the  stronger  motive.  The  second 
course  is  to  destroy  the  ugly  conditions  of  life. 
But  only  heroes  can  do  that,  and  I  am  not  a  hero. 
The  third  issue  is  to  drink  in  order  to  forget,  to 
indulge  in  dissipation,  and  to  sing.  That  was  my 
choice  —  I  sang,  and  you  see  what  end  my  sing- 
ing has  led  me  to.      {He  drinks.) 

Petushkov. 
And  marriage?     Home   life?     I   should  have 
been  happy  if  T  had  a  good  wife.      My  wife  was 
the  cause  of  my  ruin. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      117 

Fedia. 

Home  life?  Oh  yes,  my  wife  was  an  ideal  one. 
She  is  still  alive.  But,  don't  you  know,  there  was 
no  sparkle  in  her.  You  know  how,  in  order  to 
make  kvass  fizz,  they  put  a  currant  into  the  bottle. 
Well,  that  currant  was  lacking  in  our  life.  It  did 
not  sparkle.  That  is  why  I  tried  to  find  oblivion 
somehow.  I  began  to  behave  disgracefully.  And 
you  know,  I  dare  say,  that  we  love  those  who  sur- 
round us  just  for  the  good  we  are  doing  them,  and 
our  dislikes  are  caused  by  the  evil  we  do  them.  I 
wronged  her  greatly.     She  seemed  to  love  me. 

Petushkov. 
Why  do  you  say  "  seemed?  " 

Fedia. 

I  say  so  because  she  somehow  could  not  creep 
into  my  heart,  as  Masha  did.  But  I  don't  want 
to  speak  about  that.  There  were  times  when  she 
was  going  to  have  a  baby,  or  when  she  was  nurs- 
ing, and  I  stayed  away  for  days  and  came  home 
quite  drunk.  Of  course,  that  was  why  I  loved  her 
less  and  less.  (Ecstatically.)  Oh,  I  know,  I 
realise  it  only  at  this  very  moment:  the  reason  why 
I  love  Masha  is  that  I  did  her  good,  and  not  evil. 


ii8     THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

That's  it.  And  the  other  one  I  actually  tor- 
mented, and  did  not  love.  I  simply  did  not  love 
her.  I  was  jealous  for  a  time,  but  that  was  soon 
over. 

(A  Man  approaches,  Arte- 
MIEV  by  name,  dressed  in  a  shabby 
but  carefully  mended  coat;  his 
moustaches  are  dyed,  and  he  wears 
an  order  on  his  coat.) 

Artemiev. 

Good  appetite,  gentlemen.  {Bowing  to  Fe- 
DIA.)  You  have  made  the  acquaintance  of  our 
artist? 

Fedia. 

{coolly.)      Yes,  I  have. 

Artemiev. 

{to  Petushkov.)  Have  you  finished  that  por- 
trait   you  were  commissioned  to  paint? 

Petushkov. 

No;  I  didn't  get  the  commission  after  all. 

Artemiev. 

{Sitting  down.)  You  don't  mind  my  sitting  here 
with  you? 

(Fedia  and  Petushkov  re- 
main silent.) 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD       119 
Petushkov. 
Fedor  Vasilievich  was  telling  me  about  his  life. 

Artemiev. 

Oh,  secrets?  I  won't  disturb  you.  Go  on.  I 
don't  want  you.  Pigs!  {He  goes  to  the  uext 
table,  sits  down  and  orders  beer.  He  listens  to 
the  talk  of  the  other  two.) 

Fedia. 
I  don't  like  that  man. 

Petushkov. 
He  is  offended. 

Fedia. 

I  don't  care.  I  cannot  stand  people  like  that. 
I  know  I  couldn't  open  my  mouth  in  his  presence. 
It's  different  with  you  —  I  feel  quite  at  my  ease. 
Well,  what  was  I  saying? 

Petushkov. 

You  were  speaking  about  your  jealousy.  How 
did  you  part  with  your  wife? 

Fedia. 

Oh,  that!  {A  pause.)  It  Is  altogether  a  very 
strange  story.     My  wife  has  married. 


I20     THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Petushkov. 
How's  that?     Are  you  divorced? 

Fedia. 
No.      {He  smiles.)      She  Is  a  widow. 

Petushkov. 
A  widow?     What  do  you  mean? 

Fedia. 

I  mean  what  I  say.  She  is  a  widow.  I  do  not 
exist. 

Petushkov. 
I  don't  understand. 

Fedia. 

Don't  you?     I  am  dead.     Yes,  that's  it. 

(Artemiev  leans  towards  them 
and  listens  intently.) 

Well,  I  think  I  may  tell  you.  It  happened  a 
long  time  ago;  and,  besides,  you  don't  know  who 
I  really  am.  That  is  how  it  happened:  I  was 
making  my  wife  totally  miserable,  I  had  squan- 
dered everything  I  could  lay  hands  on;  in  fact,  I 
had  become  intolerable.  Well,  a  man  came  for- 
ward to  protect  my  wife.  Don't  imagine  any- 
thing  wicked   and   mean.     He   was   a   friend   of 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      121 

mine,  a  very  good  man,  very  straightforward,  the 
exact  opposite  of  me.  And  as  there  is  much  more 
bad  than  good  in  me,  he,  being  the  contrary  of 
me,  is  the  ideal  of  a  good  man:  honest,  firm,  ab- 
stemious, virtuous  in  all  respects.  He  knew  my 
wife  from  the  time  she  was  quite  a  child.  He  was 
in  love  with  her  when  she  married  me,  and  he 
bore  his  fate  patiently.  But  after  I  had  become 
disreputable,  and  she  was  in  great  straits,  he 
came  oftener  to  our  house.  I  liked  him  to  my- 
self. She  fell  in  love  with  her  old  friend,  while  I 
only  behaved  worse  and  worse,  and  then  left  my 
wife  altogether,  x-^t  that  time  I  Avas  madly  in 
love  with  Masha.  I  proposed  myself  that  they 
should  marry.  They  did  not  want  to.  I  went 
on  misbehaving,  and  finally,  of  course  — 

Petushkov. 
The  usual  thing  in  this  world! 

Fedia. 

No.  I  feel  sure  that  their  love  remained  pure. 
I  know  it  did.  He  is  very  religious,  and  marriage 
without  the  sanction  of  the  Church  is  a  sin  in  his 
eyes.  Well,  they  wanted  me  to  get  a  divorce,  and 
I  agreed  to  It.  I  was  to  plead  guilty.  But,  oh ! 
all  the  lies  I  would  have  had  to  tell.     I  could  not 


122     THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

face  it.  I  wonder  whether  you  can  believe  it,  but 
really  I  preferred  killing  myself  to  telling  lies.  I 
was  on  the  point  of  doing  so  when  a  kind  friend 
showed  me  that  it  was  quite  unnecessary.  We 
did,  accordingly,  something  quite  different.  I  sent 
a  farewell  letter  —  and  the  next  day  my  clothes 
and  my  notebook  were  found  on  the  bank.  I 
don't  swim  —  that  was  known. 

Petushkov. 

But  how  could  they  believe  you  dead  if  your 
body  had  not  been  found? 

Fedia. 

It  was  found.  Just  imagine!  A  week  after, 
some  body  or  other  was  dragged  out  of  the  water. 
My  wife  was  sent  for  to  identify  it  as  mine.  It 
was  quite  decomposed.  She  looked  at  it.  "  Is 
that  he?  "  they  asked.  "  Yes,  it  is."  That  set- 
tled it.  I  have  been  buried;  they  married,  live 
here  in  this  town,  and  are  very  happy  indeed. 
And  you  see  what  has  become  of  me.  I  live  and 
drink.  Yesterday  I  passed  their  house.  The 
windows  were  lit;  some  one's  shadow  passed 
across  the  window.  Sometimes  I  feel  very 
wretched,  but  at  others  I  am  all  right.  The 
worst  is  when  I  have  no  cash.      {He  drinks.) 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD     123 

Artemie\\ 

{approaching  them.)  Excuse  me,  but  you  know 
I  have  been  listening  to  that  story  of  yours.  A 
very  entertaining  one  it  is  —  and,  the  best  of  it 
is,  a  very  profitable  one.  You  say  you  dislike 
having  no  money.  That  is  highly  unpleasant,  no 
doubt.  And  in  your  position  you  ought  always 
to  have  lots  of  cash.  You  are  dead,  you  say. 
Stone-dead,  eh?     Well  — 

Fedia. 

Look  here,  I  did  not  tell  you  anything,  and  1 
am  in  no  need  of  any  advice  from  you. 

Artemiev. 

But  I  want  to  give  you  a  bit  of  advice.  You 
are  dead,  aren't  you?  Well,  if  it  were  found  out 
that  you  were  alive,  then  those  two,  your  wife  and 
the  man  she's  so  happy  with  now,  would  be  con- 
demned for  bigamy.  The  least  sentence  they 
could  get  would  be  deportation.  Then  why  should 
you  be  short  of  money? 

Fedia. 
Will  you  please  leave  me  alone? 

Artemiev. 
Just   write   them   a   letter.     And   if  you   don't 


124     THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

want  to,   let  me  write.     Give  me  only  their  ad- 
dress, and  you'll  be  grateful  to  me. 

Fedia. 

Get  away  from  here,  I  say.     I  did  not  tell  you 
anything. 

Artemiev. 

You  did.     I  have  a  witness.     The  waiter  here 
heard  you  saying  you  were  dead. 

Waiter. 
I  don't  know  anything  about  it. 

Fedia. 
You  wretch  I 

Artemiev. 

I    am    a    wretch?     Waiter,    call    a   policeman, 
ni  let  the  authorities  know  about  this. 

(Fedia  rises  to  go.  Artemiev 
holds  him  back.  A  Policeman  en- 
ters.) 

Scene  II 

In  the  country.     A  terrace  hung  with  ivy. 

(Anna     Dmitrievna     Kare- 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      125 

NINA  is  talking  with  Lisa  (en- 
ceinte.) The  Nurse  and  Lisa's 
Boy. 

Lisa. 

He  Is  already  on  his  way  from  the  station  by 
now. 

Boy. 

Who's  coming? 

Lisa. 

Father. 

Boy. 

Oh,  father's  coming! 

Lisa. 

C'est  etonnant  comme  il  I'aime.      Tout  a  fait 
comme  son  pere. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 
Tant  mieux.     Se  souvient-il  de  son  pere  verit- 
able? 

Lisa. 

(sighing.)  I  haven't  told  him.  I  think  it  would 
only  confuse  him.  But  sometimes  I  feel  I  ought 
to.     What  do  you  think,  mama? 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

It  all  depends  on  what  you  feel  about  it,  Lisa, 
If  you  follow  the  suggestion  of  your  own  heart, 


126     THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

you  will  know  when  and  what  you  ought  to  say. 
How  wonderfully  death  reconciles  us  with  those 
who  are  gone !  I  must  confess  there  was  a  time 
when  I  simply  hated  Fedia  —  whom  I  knew  as  a 
boy.  And  now  I  just  think  of  him  only  as  a 
pleasant  young  man,  Victor's  friend.  What  an 
impulsive  man  he  was!  Of  course,  what  he  did 
was  against  the  law,  against  religion.  But  all  the 
same  he  sacrificed  his  life  for  those  he  loved. 
You  may  say  what  you  like  the  action  was  a  fine 
one.  {A  pause.)  I  hope  Victor  will  not  forget 
to  bring  me  the  wool.  I  shall  soon  have  none 
left.      {She  knits.) 

Lisa. 
There  he  comes. 

( The     sound     of     approaching 

wheels   and  the   tinkling   of  small 

bells    attached    to    the    harness    is 

heard.     She  rises  and  goes  to  the 

end  of  the  terrace.) 

He  is  not  alone.      I  see  a  lady's  hat  at  his  side. 

Oh,  that  is  mother!      I  have  not  seen  her  for  ages. 

{She  goes  to  the  door  and  meets  Karenin  and 

Anna  Pavlovna.) 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
{kissing  Lisa  and  Anna  Dmitrievna.)      Victor 
met  me  and  brought  me  with  him. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      127 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 
That  is  nice. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

I  thought  I  had  better  come,  so  as  not  to  put  off 
my  visit  again.  Here  I  am,  and  I  will  stay  till 
the  evening  train,  if  you  don't  mind. 

Karenin. 

(Kissing  his  wife,  the  mother,  and  the  boy.) 
Congratulate  me,  all  of  you.  I  am  so  happy.  I 
shan't  have  to  go  to  town  again  for  two  days. 
They  can  manage  without  me  to-morrow. 

Lisa. 

Oh,  how  nice !  Two  days.  It's  so  long  since 
we've  seen  anything  of  you.  Suppose  we  drive 
over  to  the  hermitage.     What  do  you  say? 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

How  like  his  father  the  boy  is.  And  what  a 
fine  little  fellow !  I  only  wish  he  mayn't  have  in- 
herited everything  from  his  father:  he  has  his 
kind  heart. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 
But  not  his  weak  will. 


128      THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Lisa. 

He  Is  like  him  In  everything.  Victor  quite 
agrees  with  me  that  If  Fedia  had  come  under  a 
good  Influence  when  he  was  young  — 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

I  don't  understand  all  that.  But  I  cannot 
think  of  Fedia  without  tears. 

Lisa. 

We  all  feel  just  the  same.  We  hold  him  far 
dearer  In  our  memory  than  we  did  when  he  was 
alive. 

Anna  Pavlovna. 
Yes,  Indeed. 

Lisa. 

How  hopeless  It  all  seemed  at  one  time,  and 
then  on  a  sudden  all  the  difficulties  were  solved. 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

(to  her  son.)      Well,  Victor,   have  you  brought 
me  some  wool? 

Karenin. 

Yes,  I  have.  ( Taking  some  parcels  out  of  his 
bag.)  There  Is  your  wool  and  the  eau-de-Co- 
logne, and  here  are  the  letters.     A  letter  for  you, 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      129 

Lisa,  with  a  magistrate's  seal.  (He  hands  the 
letter  to  Lisa.)  Well,  Anna  Pavlovna,  if  you 
care  to  tidy  up,  let  me  show  you  your  room.  I 
must  go  and  wash  after  our  drive;  dinner  will 
soon  be  ready.  Lisa,  shall  I  show  Anna  Pav- 
lovna into  the  coiner  room  downstairs? 

(Lisa,  quite  pale,  holds  the  let- 
ter with  trembling  hands  and 
reads  it.) 

Karenin. 

What  is  it,  Lisa?     What  is  in  that  letter? 

Lisa. 

He  is  alive!  O  God,  when  shall  I  be  free 
from  him?  O  Victor,  what  does  it  all  mean? 
{She  breaks  into  sobs.) 

Karenin. 

(taking  the  letter  and  reading.)      Horrible! 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

What  has  happened?  Tell  me  —  tell  me  what 
It  is! 

Karenin. 

It  is  awful.  He  is  alive.  She  is  accused  of 
bigamy,  and  I  am  a  criminal  too.  This  letter  is 
from  the  investigating  magistrate,  who  summons 
Lisa  to  him. 


130      THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 
Anna  Dmitrievna. 
Horrible  wretch!     Why  did  he  do  it? 

Karenin. 

It  was  all  a  He  —  a  lie  ! 

Lisa. 

Oh,  how  I  hate  him !  —  I  don't  know  what  I 
am  saying. 

{She    goes    into    the    house    in 
tears.     Karenin  follows  her.) 

Anna  Pavlovna. 

Is  it  really  possible  he  is  alive?  How  can 
it  be? 

Anna  Dmitrievna. 

I  have  always  felt  —  that  from  the  moment 
Victor  came  into  touch  with  them,  they  were 
bound  to  drag  him  down  into  the  mire.  And 
they  have.     They  are  all  lies  —  lies  and  deceit! 

ACT   VI 

Scene  I 

(The  Investigating  Magistrate's  office.) 
{The  Magistrate  sits  at  the 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      131 

tabic,  talking  with  Melnikov. 
His  Clerk  is  looking  through  a 
pile  of  paper.) 

Magistrate. 
I  never  told  her  that.     She  invented  it  all,  and 
now  she  reproaches  me, 

Melnikov. 

She  does  not  reproach  you,  but  she  is  hurt. 

Magistrate. 

Well,  I  will  come  to  dinner.  Just  now  I  have 
an  interesting  case.  {To  the  Clerk.)  Call 
them  in,  please. 

Clerk. 
Both? 

Magistrate. 

{finishing  a  cigarette.)  No,  first  Madame  Kare- 
nina,  or,  rather,  Madame  Protassova,  to  call  her 
by  her  first  name. 

Melnikov. 
Oh,  it  is  Madame  Karenina. 

Magistrate. 

Yes,  an  ugly  business.  I  am  only  beginning 
the  inquiry,  but  I  can  see  it  is  a  bad  business. 
Well,  good-bye. 


132      THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

(Melnikov  goes  out. 

The  Clerk  goes  out  and  fetches 
Lisa.  She  is  in  a  black  dress  and 
black  veil.) 

Magistrate. 

Be  seated,  please.  (He  points  to  the  chair  at 
the  side  of  his  table.  LiSA  sits  down.)  I  am 
very  sorry,  believe  me,  to  have  to  question  you. 
But  it  is  my  duty.  Be  perfectly  quiet,  please. 
You  have  the  right  not  to  answer  questions  if  you 
do  not  want  to.  But  I  should  advise  you  not  to 
conceal  the  truth  —  this  is  by  far  the  best  for  you 
and  for  all  the  others.  From  the  practical  point 
of  view  the  truth  will  be  far  the  best  policy. 

Lisa. 
I  have  nothing  to  conceal. 

Magistrate. 

(looking  in  the  paper  before  him.)  Your  rank? 
Religion?  I  have  that  down  already.  I  suppose 
it  is  correct?      (He  shows  her  the  paper.) 

Lisa. 
(reading.)      Yes. 

Magistrate. 
You  are  charged  with  having  contracted  a  sec- 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      133 

ond  marriage,  well  knowing  th'at  your  first  hus- 
band was  alive. 

Lisa. 
I  did  not  know  it. 

Magistrate. 

And  also  with  having  bribed  your  first  husband 
to  pretend  that  he  had  committed  suicide,  in  order 
that  you  might  regain  your  freedom. 

Lisa. 
That  is  all  false. 

Magistrate. 

Allow  me  to  put  to  you  a  few  questions.  In 
July  last,  did  you  send  him  twelve  hundred  roubles? 

Lisa. 

The  money  belonged  to  him.  It  was  the  sum 
produced  by  the  sale  of  different  things  he  left. 
When  I  parted  with  him,  and  was  waiting  for  the 
divorce,  I  sent  him  this  money. 

Magistrate. 

Very  well.  This  money  was  sent  the  17th  of 
July,  that  is,  two  days  before  he  disappeared. 


134      THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Lisa. 

I  think  that  was  the  date.  But  I  don't  quite 
remember. 

Magistrate. 

Now,  why  was  your  lawyer  instructed  to  with- 
draw your  petition  for  a  divorce  at  precisely  that 
time? 

Lisa. 

I  don't  know. 

Magistrate. 

Very  well.  Now,  when  the  police  asked  you  to 
examine  the  corpse,  how  did  it  happen  that  you 
identified  it  as  being  that  of  your  husband? 

Lisa. 

I  was  so  much  upset  that  I  did  not  look  at  the 
corpse.  I  was  so  certain  it  was  he  that  when  they 
asked  me  whether  it  was  I  said  I  thought  it  was. 

Magistrate. 

You  did  not  examine  the  corpse,  because  you 
were  in  a  state  of  great  agitation.  That  is  easily 
understood.  Very  well.  But  may  I  ask  why  you 
sent  by  post  every  month  a  certain  sum  of  money 
to  Saratov,  the  town  where  your  first  husband  re- 
sided? 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      135 

Lisa. 

It  was  my  husband  who  sent  that  money.  I 
cannot  tell  you  to  whom.  It  was  a  secret  of  his 
and  not  of  mine.  I  can  only  assure  you  that  it 
was  not  sent  to  Fedor  Vasilievich,  We  were 
firmly  convinced  that  he  was  dead.  That  is  an 
absolute  fact. 

Magistrate. 

Very  well.  Permit  me  only  to  say,  madam, 
that  although  we  are  servants  of  the  law  that  does 
not  prevent  us  from  being  humane.  Believe  me, 
I  quite  understand  the  sadness  of  your  position, 
and  have  the  greatest  sympathy  for  your  troubles. 
You  were  tied  to  a  man  who  squandered  your 
property,  who  was  unfaithful;  who,  in  short,  made 
you  miserable. 

'  Lisa. 

I  loved  him. 

Magistrate. 

Of  course.  Still  it  was  quite  natural  for  you 
to  desire  your  liberty,  and  you  chose  this  simple 
way  without  thinking  that  it  might  lead  you  to 
what  is  considered  a  crime  —  to  bigamy.  I  quite 
understand  that,  and  the  jury  will  also  understand. 
That  is  why  I  would  advise  you  to  tell  the  entire 
truth. 


136      THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Lisa. 

I  have  told  it.  I  have  never  Hed  in  my  life. 
(She  bursts  into  tears.)      May  I  go  now? 

Magistrate. 

I  must  ask  you  to  remain  here  for  a  while.  I 
will  not  trouble  you  with  any  more  questions. 
None  at  all.  I  must  ask  you  simply  to  read 
your  deposition  and  to  sign  it.  You  will  see 
whether  I  have  taken  down  your  answers  correctly. 
Will  you  kindly  sit  here?  {Pointing  to  the  ta- 
ble near  the  window;  then  to  the  clerk.)  Show 
in  Mr.  Karenin. 

( The  clerk  shows  in  Karenin, 
looking  earnest  and  rather  solemn.) 

•  Magistrate. 
Be  seated,  please. 

Karenin. 

Thank  you.  {He  remains  standing.)  What 
do  you  want  from  me  ? 

Magistrate. 
My  duty  is  to  make  an  inquiry. 

Karenin. 
In  what  capacity? 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      137 

Magistrate. 
(smiling.)      In  my  capacity  as  investigating  mag- 
istrate.     You  are  here  charged  with  a  crime. 

Karenin. 
Indeed?     With  what  crime? 

Magistrate. 
Bigamy.     But  kindly  let  me  put  you  some  ques- 
tions.    Pray  be  seated. 

Karenin. 
No,  thank  you. 

Magistrate. 
Your  name? 

Karenin. 
Victor  Karenin. 

Magistrate. 

Your  rank? 

Karenin. 
Chamberlain  of  the  Imperial  Court. 

Magistrate. 
Your  age? 

Karenin. 
Thirty-eight. 


138      THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Magistrate. 
Your  religion? 

Karenin. 

Orthodox  Greek.  I  have  never  before  been 
tried  on  any  charge.     Well,  what  next? 

Magistrate. 

Were  you  aware  that  Fedor  Vasillevich  Pro- 
tassov  was  alive  when  you  contracted  a  marriage 
with  his  wife? 

Karenin. 

No;  I  did  not  know  that.  We  were  certain 
that  he  was  drowned. 

Magistrate. 

To  whom  did  you  send  money  every  month 
after  the  false  report  of  Protassov's  death? 

Karenin. 

I  refuse  to  answer  that  question. 
Magistrate. 

Very  well.  What  was  the  object  of  your  hav- 
ing sent  twelve  hundred  roubles  to  Protassov  a  few 
days  before  his  simulated  suicide  on  July  17th? 

Karenin. 
The  money  was  given  me  to  post  by  my  wife. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      139 

Magistrate. 
By  Madame  Protassov? 

Karenin. 

By  my  wife  to  send  to  her  husband.  She  con- 
sidered that  this  sum  of  money  was  his  property, 
and  having  parted  with  him  she  thought  it  unfair 
to  l^eep  his  money. 

Magistrate. 

One  question  more :  why  did  you  stop  taking 
steps  to  obtain  a  divorce? 

Karenin. 

Because  Fedor  Vasihevich  had  undertaken  to 
do  all  that  was  necessary,  and  wrote  me  a  letter 
to  that  effect. 

Magistrate. 
You  have  that  letter? 

Karenin. 
No;  I  have  lost  it. 

Magistrate. 

It  is  very  awkward  that  everything  should  be 
lost  that  could  have  afforded  proof  that  you  are 
speaking  the  truth. 


I40      THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Karenin. 
What  else  do  you  want  from  me? 

Magistrate. 

All  I  want  is  to  do  my  duty;  and  what  you 
want  is  to  prove  your  innocence.  So  I  should  ad- 
vise you,  as  I  have  advised  Madame  Protassova, 
not  to  conceal  things  which  are  sure  to  be  found 
out,  and  to  say  frankly  what  actually  happened. 
It  is  more  advisable,  because  Protassov  himself 
is  in  such  a  condition  that  he  relates  the  actual 
facts  about  everything,  and  will  probably  do  so  In 
court.     I  should  strongly  advise  you  — 

Karenin. 

I  shall  be  obliged  if  you  will  do  your  duty 
strictly  without  volunteering  any  kind  of  advice. 
May  we  go?  {He  goes  to  Lisa,  who  takes  his 
arm.) 

Magistrate. 

I  am  sorry,  but  I  must  keep  you  here  just  now. 

(Karenin  turns  to  him  with  as- 
tonishment,) 

Oh  no,  I  don't  mean  to  arrest  you,  although 
It  would  greatly  facilitate  my  inquiry.  But  I 
shall  not  proceed  to  that  step.      I  only  want  to 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      141 

question  Protassov  in  your  presence,  and  confront 
him  with  you,  to  give  you  an  opportunity  of  prov- 
ing the  untruth  of  his  statements.  Be  seated, 
please.      {To  the  clerk.)      Call  in  Mr.  Protassov. 

( The  clerk  fetches  in  Fedia,  in 
rags,  a  total  wreck.) 

Fedia. 

{to  Lisa  and  Karenin.)  Elizaveta  Andreevna, 
Victor,  it  is  not  my  fault  it  has  come  to  this.  I 
wanted  only  to  do  the  best  for  you.  If  I  am 
guilty,  forgive  me.  {He  hows  to  the  ground  be- 
fore them.) 

Magistrate. 

Will  you,  please,  answer  my  questions? 

Fedia. 

Ask  whatever  you  like. 

Magistrate. 
Your  name? 

Fedia. 
But  you  know  it. 

Magistrate. 
Answer,  please. 

Fedia. 
Fedor  Protassov. 


142     THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Magistrate. 
Rank,  religion,  age? 

Fedia. 

{after  a  short  silence.)  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  to  ask  such  silly  questions.  Ask  some- 
thing to  the  point,  and  leave  all  that  nonsense. 

Magistrate. 

Be  careful,  please,  in  your  expressions.  An- 
swer my  questions. 

Fedia. 

Well,  as  you  are  not  ashamed.  My  rank: 
graduate  of  the  University  of  Moscow.  My 
age:  forty.  My  religion:  orthodox  Greek. 
What  next? 

Magistrate. 

Did  Mr.  Karenin  and  his  wife  know  you  were 
alive  when  you  left  your  clothes  on  the  bank  and 
disappeared? 

Fedia. 

They  did  not.  There  can  be  no  doubt  about 
that.  I  actually  intended  to  kill  myself,  but 
then  —  But  I  need  not  tell  you  all  that.  The 
point  is  that  they  did  not  know. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      143 
Magistrate. 

Your  statements  to  the  police  officer  contained 
a  different  story.     What  is  the  meaning  of  that? 

Fedia. 

What  police  officer?  Oh  yes,  a  police  officer 
came  to  the  Rjanov  night-shelter  to  see  me.  I 
was  drunk,  and  I  told  all  sorts  of  lies.  I  don't 
remember  now  what  I  said.  That  was  all  non- 
sense. Now  I  am  not  drunk,  and  I  am  telling 
you  the  truth.  They  did  not  know.  They  be- 
lieved me  dead.  How  glad  I  was  they  did ! 
And  it  would  have  been  all  right  for  ever  but  for 
that  wretch  Artemiev.  But  if  somebody  must  be 
found  guilty,  it  is  only  I. 

Magistrate. 

I  understand  your  desire  to  be  generous,  but 
the  law  wants  the  truth.  Why  had  you  money 
sent  to  you? 

(Fedia  makes  no  answer.) 

Magistrate. 

You  received  that  money  through  a  man  named 
Semenov,  in  Saratov. 

(Fedia  makes  no  answer.) 

Magistrate. 
Why  do  you  not  answer?     My  report  will  men- 


144     THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

tion  that  the  defendant  did  not  answer  these  ques- 
tions. This  would  certainly  be  in  favour  of  the 
prosecution,  and  hurt  both  you  and  the  other  two. 
Don't  you  see  that? 

Fedia. 

{silent  for  a  moment,  then  passionately.)  Oh, 
are  you  not  ashamed,  sir?  Why  do  you  thrust 
yourself  into  other  people's  lives !  You  are  en- 
grossed by  the  power  you  possess,  and  you  must 
show  it  off !  You  cause  endless  pain  —  moral 
pain,  much  worse  than  physical  torture  —  to  those 
who  are  a  thousand  times  better  and  worthier 
than  you. 

Magistrate. 
I  beg  — 

Fedia. 

Don't  beg.  I  will  tell  you  what  I  think,  and 
you  {to  the  clerk)  just  write  it  down.  At  least, 
for  the  first  time,  one  of  these  reports  will  contain 
sense,  and  something  manly.  {Raising  his  voice.) 
There  are  three  of  us :  she,  he,  and  I.  The  relations 
between  us  have  been  very  complicated:  a  moral 
struggle,  the  like  of  w^hich  you  never  dreamed  of. 
This  struggle  has  brought  about  a  situation  which 
solved  the  difficulties.  All  our  troubles  were  over. 
They  were  happy,  they  loved  my  memory.  I,  in 
my  disgrace,  was  happy  too,  because  I  had  done 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      HS 

the  right  thing;  because  I  had  disappeared  from 
life  —  and  quite  right  too  —  so  as  not  to  be  in 
the  way  of  those  who  were  full  of  life  and  lived 
an  honest  life.  We  all  lived  as  we  ought  to. 
Then  suddenly  a  blackmailing  blackguard  comes 
along,  and  wants  me  to  be  a  party  to  his  plan  of 
blackmail.  I  turn  him  out.  He  goes  to  you,  the 
champion  of  justice,  the  guardian  of  morality. 
And  you,  just  because  you  get  some  wretched 
monthly  screw  for  your  filthy  work,  you  put  on 
your  uniform  and  swagger  at  your  ease;  showing 
off  your  power  over  those  who  tower  above  you, 
and  who  would  not  let  you  pass  the  threshold  of 
their  houses.  You  have  climbed  to  a  sort  of  pin- 
nacle, and  you  are  happy  — 

Magistrate. 
I  shall  have  you  turned  out. 

Fedia. 

Oh,  I  am  not  afraid  of  anything.  I  am  a  dead 
man  —  you  can  do  nothing  to  me.  I  can't  be 
worse  off  than  I  am,  whatever  you  do  to  me.  You 
may  order  me  out.     I  don't  mind. 

Karenin. 
May  we  go? 


146      THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Magistrate. 
Sign  your  deposition  first. 

Fedia. 
Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha!     You  pitiful  beast! 

Magistrate. 

Take  him  away.  I  shall  make  out  an  order 
for  your  arrest. 

Fedia. 
(to  Karenin  and  Lisa.)      Forgive  me. 

Karenin. 

(stretching  out  his  hand  to  him.)      It  was  fated 
to  happen  so. 

(Lisa  passes;  Fedia  bows  low  to  her.) 

Scene    II 

A  passage  in  law  the  court.  In  the  background 
is  a  glass  door,  with  a  Guard  standing  before  it. 
To  the  right  is  another  door,  through  which  the 
Prisoners  are  being  conducted  to  the  court. 

Ivan  Petrovich,  in  rags,  goes 
to  the  door  on  the  right,  and  tries 
to  pass  through  it. 


St.  Matthew. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      147 

Guard. 

Stop  !     No  admission  here.     How  dare  you ! 

Ivan  Petrovich. 

Why  no  admission?  The  law  says  that  the 
sittings  of  the  court  are  public. 

{Applause  is  heard  from  within.) 

Guard. 

No  admission,  I  say.  I  am  ordered  not  to  let 
anybody  pass. 

Ivan  Petrovich. 

You  rude  fellow!  You  don't  know  whom  you 
are  addressing. 

{A  Young  Lawyer  enters.) 
Young  Lawyer. 
Are  you  here  on  business? 

Ivan  Petrovich. 

No,  I  am  one  of  the  public.  And  this  rude 
fellow,  this  Cerberus,  won't  let  me  go  In. 

Young  Lawyer. 

This  is  not  the  entrance  for  the  public.  Wait 
a  minute;  the  court  will  adjourn  presently  for 
lunch. 

{He  is  about  to  ^o,  hut  stops, 
seeing  Prince  Abreskov  coining 
in.) 


148      THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 
Ivan  Petrovich. 
I  ought  to  be  admitted,  anyhow. 

Prince  Abreskov. 

May  I  Inquire  how  far  the  proceedings  have 
gone? 

Young  Lawyer. 

The  speeches  for  the  defence  have  just  begun. 
Petrushin  is  speaking  now, 

{Applause  is  heard  from  the  court.) 

Prince  Abreskov. 
What  attitude  do  the  defendants  adopt? 

Young  Lawyer. 

Very  dignified  indeed,  especially  that  of  Kare- 
nin  and  Elizaveta  Andreevna.  It  is  as  if  they 
were  the  judges  and  not  the  defendants.  This  is 
the  general  impression.  And  Petrushin  Is  taking- 
advantage  of  that. 

Prince  Abreskov. 
And  Protassov? 

Young  Lawyer. 
He  is  extremely  excited,  trembles  all  the  time. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      149 

Quite  natural,  considering  his  life.  But  he  is  too 
irritable.  He  interrupted  the  counsel  for  the 
prosecution  more  than  once,  and  his  own  counsel. 
He  is  in  a  frightful  state  of  excitement. 

Prince  Abreskov. 
What  sentence  do  you  anticipate? 

Young  Lawyer. 

It  is  hard  to  say;  it  is  a  very  mixed  jury. 
Obviously  the  jury  won't  bring  it  in  that  there 
has  been  any  premeditation.  But,  all  the 
same 

{The  door  opens,  a  gentleman 
comes  out  of  the  court,  Prince 
Abreskov  moves  to  the  door.) 

Young  Lawyer. 

Would  you  like  to  go  in? 

Prince  Abreskov. 
I  should,  very  much. 

Young  Lawyer. 
You  are  Prince  Abreskov? 

Prince  Abreskov. 
Yes. 


I50     THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 
Young  Lawyer. 

{to     the     Guard.)      Let     this     gentleman     pass. 

There  is  a  free  seat  on  the  left;  take  it. 

(Prince  Abreskov  is  allowed 
to  enter;  a  door  is  opened  for 
him,  the  Counsel  for  the  defence 
is  seen  through  it  speaking.) 

Ivan  Petrovich. 

Silly  aristocrats!      I   am   an  intellectual  aristo- 
crat.    That's  something  much  more. 

Young  Lawyer. 
Excuse  me.      {He  goes  off  hurriedly.) 

Petushkov    {entering.) 

There    you    are,    Ivan    Petrovich !     How    are 
you?     How  far  have  the  proceedings  gone? 

Ivan  Petrovich. 

The    speeches    for    the    defence    have    begun. 
Don't  try  to  pass.     They  will  not  let  you. 

Guard. 

Silence.     You  are  not  in  a  public-house  here. 
{Further     applause     is     heard. 
The   door   opens,   and   there   is   a 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      151 

rush  of  Lawyers,   Gentlemen, 
and  Ladies  into  the  passage.) 

First  Lady. 
Wonderful !     He  mov^d  me  to  tears. 

Officer. 

It  Is  more  thrilling  than  any  novel.  But  I  can- 
not understand  how  she  could  have  loved  him. 
Such  a  horrible  face  ! 

( The  otlier  door  opens  and  the 
Defendants  appear;  Lisa  and 
Karenin  go  through  the  passage. 
Fedia  follows  them.) 

First  Lady. 

Don't  talk.  Here  he  comes.  Look  how  agi- 
tated he  is. 

{The  Lady  and  Officer  pass  of.) 

Fedia. 

{Coming  near  to  Ivan  Petrovich.)  You  have 
brought  It? 

Ivan  Petrovich. 
Here  it  is.      {He  hands  him  a  case.) 

Fedia. 
{hides  it  in  his  pocket  and  moves  to  go;  then  sees 


152     THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Petushkov.)  How  stupid  it  all  is.  How 
wearisome!  How  meaningless!  {He  turns  to 
go.) 

Petrushin. 

(his  counsel;  a  stout  man,  with  red  cheeks,  very 
animated.)  Well,  my  friend,  our  case  is  looking 
up.      But  don't  spoil  things  in  your  last  speech. 

Fedia. 
I  shall  not  spealc  at  all.      I  don't  want  to. 

Petrushin. 

No?  —  you  must.  But  don't  be  uneasy.  Now 
we  are  pretty  sure  to  win.  You  just  tell  them 
what  you  told  me  —  that  if  you  are  being  tried  it 
is  for  not  having  committed  suicide,  which  would 
have  meant  committing  a  crime  indeed,  against 
both  civil  and  ecclesiastic  laws. 

Fedia. 
I  shall  not  tell  them  anything. 

Petrushin. 
Why  not? 

Fedia. 

I  don't  want  to.  Tell  me  only  —  at  the  worst, 
what  can  happen? 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      i53 

Petrushin. 

I  told  you.     At  the  worst,  It  might  be  deporta- 
tion to  Siberia. 

Fedia. 

Who  would  be  deported? 

Petrushin. 

You  and  your  wife. 

Fedia. 
And  at  the  best? 

Petrushin. 

Penance  in  a  monastery,  and,  of  course,  the  an- 
nulment of  the  second  marriage. 

Fedia. 

In  fact,  I  shall  be  tied  to  her  again.  I  mean 
she  tied  to  me? 

Petrushin. 

Well,  that  cannot  be  helped.  But  don't  be  so 
agitated.  And  please  say  what  I  told  you  to  say. 
I  beseech  you  not  to  say  what  is  unnecessary. 
You  want —  {jioticing  that  they  are  surrounded 
by  listeners.)  I  am  tired.  I  will  go  and  rest. 
You  ought  to  rest  also  in  the  meanwhile.  And 
mind,  don't  let  yourself  be  alarmed. 


154      THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD 

Fedia. 
No  other  sentence  could  possibly  be  expected? 

Petrushin. 

(going.)      No  other, 

(Officers  of  the  Court  enter, 
pass,  and  stand  in  the  passage.) 

Fedia. 

Now  then.  {He  takes  the  revolver  out  of  his 
pocket  and  shoots  himself  through  the  heart.  He 
falls.  All  the  people  in  the  passage  rush  to  him.) 
I  think  I  have  not  missed  this  time.     Call  Lisa. 

{People  are  crowding  in  from 
all  the  doors:  Judges,  witnesses, 
public.  Lisa  rushes  to  Fedia. 
Masha,  Karenin,  Ivan  Petro- 
viCH,  Prince  Abreskov  follow 
her.) 

Lisa. 

What  have  you  done,  Fedia!     Why? 

Fedia. 

Forgive  me,  I  could  not  make  you  free  before. 
Now,  it  is  not  for  you,  it  is  for  my  own 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  DEAD      155 

sake.      ...      I    am    much    better    so.      I    was 
ready  even 

Lisa. 

You  will  live. 

{A  doctor  bends  down  over  him, 
lays  his  ear  to  his  heart.) 

Fedia. 

Oh,  I  know  it  is  over.  Good-bye,  Victor. 
And,  Masha,  you  are  late  this  time.  Oh,  how 
happy  I  am  now!      {Dies.) 


THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL 


CHARACTERS 

Old   Akulina.      Seventy   years    old;    still   brisk, 
dignified,  old  fashioned. 

Michael.     Her     son;     thirty-five,     passionate, 
proud,  vain,  strong. 

Martha.     His   wife,    thirty-two.     A   grumbler; 
talks  a  great  deal  and  rapidly. 

Paraska.     Ten    years    old.     Daughter    of    Mi- 
chael and  Martha. 

Watchman       Taras.      Fifty.     Self-important, 
gives  himself  airs,  speaks  slowly. 

Tramp.      Forty;     wiry,     thin,     speaks     stiltedly. 
When  drunk  is  very  free. 

Ignat.     a  chatterbox,  gay,  stupid. 

Neighbour.     Forty.     Fussy. 

Autumn.     A  hut  with  a  closet. 


THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL 

ACT   I 

Old  Akulina  is  spimilng;  the 
housezvife  Martha  -is  making 
dough;  little  Paraska  is  rocking 
the  cradle. 

Martha. 

Oh,  my  heart  has  a  boding  of  111.  What  can 
he  be  about?  It  will  be  as  bad  as  last  time  when 
he  went  to  sell  the  wood.  He  spent  nearly  half 
on  drink.     And  it's  always  my  fault. 

Akulina. 

Why  reckon  on  evil?  It  is  still  early.  It  is 
a  long  way  off.     It  takes  time. 

Martha. 

Akimich  has  returned.  It's  not  early.  He 
left  after  my  man,  but  my  man  is  not  back. 
Worry,  worry,  that's  all  the  pleasure  one  gets. 

Akulina. 

Akimich  had  sold  his  wood;  he  only  had  to 
deliver  it.  Our  man  was  taking  his  to  the  mar- 
ket. 

159 


i6o  THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL 

Martha. 

I  should  not  be  afraid  if  he  was  alone,  but  he 
went  with  Ignat.  And  every  time  he  goes  out 
with  that  thick-headed  mule  —  heaven  help  me! 
it  never  ends  well,  he  always  gets  drunk.  Day 
after  day  I  struggle  on.  Everything  depends  on 
me.  If  anything  good  ever  came  along!  But 
nothing  pleasant  ever  happens,  and  It's  work, 
work  from  morning  till  night. 

The  door  opens,   and  the  local 

watchman    Taras    enters    with    a 

ragged  tramp. 

Taras. 
How  do  you  do?     I  have  brought  you  a  lodger. 

Tramp. 
(Bozving.)      Greetings  to  the  hosts. 

Martha. 

Why  do  you  bring  them  to  us  so  often?  We 
had  a  man  here  Wednesday  night.  You  always 
bring  them  to  us.  You  ought  to  take  them  to 
Stepanida:  she  has  no  children.  I  don't  know 
where  to  turn  with  mine,  and  you  always  bring 
tramps  to  us. 

Taras. 

I  take  them  to  every  one  in  turn. 


THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL  i6i 

Martha. 

In  turn,  Indeed!  I  have  children.  And  my 
man  Is  out. 

Taras. 

If  he  sleeps  here  he  won't  wear  out  the  place  he 
lies  on. 

Akulina. 

(  To  the  Tramp.)  Come  In,  sit  down.  Make 
yourself  at  home. 

Tramp. 

Thanks.  I  should  like  something  to  eat,  If 
possible. 

Martha. 

Hasn't  had  time  to  look  round,  and  asks  for 
food  at  once.  Didn't  you  come  through  the  vil- 
lage? 

Tramp. 

(Sighs.)  I'm  not  accustomed  to  this  sort  of 
thing  In  my  position.  But  as  I  have  nothing  of 
my  own  — 

Akulina  rises,  gets  the  bread, 
cuts  a  slice  and  gives  it  to  the 
tramp. 

Tramp. 
{Taking  the  bread.)      Merci.      {He  sits  down 
on  the  bench  and  eats  greedily.) 


1 62  THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL 

Taras. 
Where  Is  Michael? 

Martha. 

Gone  to  town  with  the  hay.  It's  time  he  was 
back,  but  he's  not.  I  can't  help  thinking  some- 
thing has  happened. 

Taras. 
What  could  happen? 

Martha. 

What,  indeed?  Nothing  good,  of  course;  but 
you  can  count  on  something  bad. 

Akulina. 

(Sitting  down  to  her  spinning  wheel.  To 
Taras,  pointing  at  Martha.)  She  never  can 
hold  her  tongue.  I  know,  we  women  are  not 
wise.  But  once  he's  out  of  the  house,  he  doesn't 
care  a  rap.     I  expect  him  to  come  home  drunk. 

Martha. 

If  he  was  alone  I  wouldn't  be  afraid,  but  he 
went  with  Ignat. 

Taras. 

(Smiling.)  Oh,  well,  Ignat  Ivanovich  is  a 
rare  one  for  drink. 


THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL  163 

Akulina. 
What  has  Ignat  got  to  do  with  him? 

Martha. 

It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk,  mother.  But 
I'm  just  sick  to  death  of  his  drunkenness.  When 
he's  sober,  it  would  be  a  sin  to  complain,  but  when 
he's  drunk  you  know  what  he's  like.  Don't  say 
a  word.     Everything's  wrong. 

Taras. 

But  what  about  you  women?  A  man  gets 
drunk.  Well,  what  of  that?  He  shows  off  a  bit. 
Sleep  it  off,  and  all  will  be  smooth  again.  But 
you  women  must  pester. 

Martha. 

It  doesn't  matter  what  you  do.  If  he's  drunk, 
everything's  wrong. 

Taras. 

You  must  understand  that  a  man  can't  help 
drinking  sometimes.  Your  woman's  work  keeps 
you  at  home;  but  we  can't  help  it,  if  we've  got 
business  or  are  in  company.  What  if  one  does 
drink?     There's  no  harm  in  it. 


i64  THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL 

Martha. 

It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk,  but  it's  hard 
on  us  women;  oh!  so  hard.  If  you  men  were  in 
our  place  for  a  week  you'd  alter  your  tune,  I 
know.  Make  and  bake,  and  boil  and  spin,  and 
weave,  and  the  cattle,  and  all  the  work,  and  these 
little  naked  things  to  be  washed  and  dressed  and 
fed.  It  all  falls  on  us,  and  directly  the  least  thing 
isn't  exactly  as  he  likes  —  there  it  is,  especially 
when  he's  drunk.     Oh,  what  a  life  is  woman's! 

Tramp. 

(Munching.)  Quite  true.  Drink  is  the  cause 
of  it  all,  and  all  the  catastrophes  of  life  come 
from  it. 

Taras. 
It's  evident  that  it's  knocked  you  over. 

Tramp. 

No,  not  exactly,  though  I  have  suffered  from 
it  too.  Were  it  not  for  that,  the  course  of  my 
life  might  have  been  different. 

Taras. 

Well,  to  my  mind,  if  you  drink  wisely  no  harm 
comes  of  it. 


THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL  165 

Tramp. 

And  I  say  it  has  such  power  that  it  may  ruin 
a  man. 

Martha. 

That's  what  I  say.  You  work,  you  do  your 
best,  and  all  your  reward  is  to  be  scolded  or 
beaten  like  a  dog. 

Tramp. 

Not  only  that,  but  there  are  people  who  are 
slaves  to  it  —  who  lose  their  heads  through  it,  and 
perform  actions  that  are  quite  undesirable.  So 
long  as  he  does  not  drink,  give  him  anything  you 
like,  he  will  take  nothing  that  does  not  belong  to 
him.  Once  he's  drunk,  he  grabs  anything  that 
comes  to  hand.  He  gets  blows,  he  is  put  in 
prison.  When  he's  not  drunk  he  is  honest, 
worthy;  but  directly  he  drinks,  he  becomes  slavish 
—  he  takes  anything  he  can. 

Akulina. 

I  think  it  depends  on  oneself. 

Tramp. 

It  depends  on  oneself  when  one  is  healthy,  but 
drink  is  a  disease. 

Taras. 

A  disease,  indeed !     You  give  him  what  he  de- 


i66  THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL 

serves,  and  that  disease  will  very  soon  disappear. 
Good-bye,  so  long.      {He  leaves.) 

Martha,  wiping  her  hands,  is 
about  to  go  out. 

Akulina. 

{Looking  at  the  tramp  and  seeing  that  he  has 
eaten  the  bread.)  Martha,  Martha,  cut  him 
some  more. 

Martha. 

What  next!     I'm  going  to  see  to  the  samovar. 
Akulina  rises,  goes  to  the  ta- 
ble, takes  the  bread  and  cuts  a  slice 
and  gives  it  to  the  tramp. 

Tramp. 
Merci.     I  have  developed  a  great  appetite. 

Akulina. 
Are  you  a  factory  hand? 

Tramp. 
Who?     I?     I  was  an  engine-driver. 

Akulina. 
Did  you  earn  much? 

Tramp. 
From  50  to  70  roubles  a  month. 


THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL  167 

Akulina. 

Dear  me !  How  on  earth  did  you  come  down 
In  the  world  so? 

Tramp. 

I'm  not  the  only  one  who's  come  down  In  the 
world.  I  came  down  because  we  live  In  such 
times  that  an  honest  man  can't  make  his  way. 

Martha. 

{Entering  with  samovar.)  O  Lord,  he's  not 
back  yet.  He'll  certainly  be  drunk.  My  heart 
tells  me  so. 

Akulina. 

I'm  beginning  to  think  he's  gone  on  the  spree. 

Martha. 

There,  you  see !  I  have  to  struggle  on  alone, 
make  and  bake,  boll  and  spin,  and  weave,  and  the 
cattle.  It  all  falls  on  me,  and  these  little  naked 
things.  {She  points  to  the  children.  The  baby 
in  the  cradle  screams.)  Parasha,  rock  the  cradle. 
Oh,  what  a  life  Is  woman's!  And  If  he's  drunk 
It  Is  all  wrong.     Say  a  word  he  doesn't  like  — 

Akulina. 

{Making  the  tea.)  Here's  the  last  of  the  tea. 
Did  you  tell  him  to  bring  some? 


1 68  THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL 

Martha. 

Of  course.  He  meant  to.  But  will  he? 
Will  he  give  a  thought  to  his  home?  {She  puts 
the  samovar  on  the  table.) 

The  Tramp  leaves  the  table. 

Akulina. 

Why  do  you  get  up?  We  are  going  to  have 
tea. 

Tramp. 

I  give  you  thanks  for  your  kind  hospitality. 
{He  throws  down  his  cigarette  and  approaches 
the  table.) 

Martha. 

What  are  you?     Are  you  a  peasant  or  what? 

Tramp. 

I'm  neither  a  peasant  nor  a  noble,  missus;  I 
belong  to  a  double-edged  class. 

Martha. 
What  do  you  mean!      {Gives  him  a  cup.) 

Tramp. 

Merci.  I  mean  that  my  father  was  a  Polish 
count;  and  besides  him  there  were  many  more, 
and  I  had  two  mothers  also. 


THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL  169 

Akulina. 
O  Lord!     How  could  you? 

Tramp. 

It  was  this  way,  because  my  mother  lived  in 
prostitution  —  in  polygamy,  therefore  —  and 
there  were  all  sorts  of  fathers,  and  there  were 
two  mothers,  because  the  mother  who  bore  me  de- 
serted me  in  my  tender  years.  A  yard-porter's 
wife  took  pity  on  me  and  brought  me  up.  In 
general,  my  biography  is  complicated. 

Martha. 
Have  some  more  tea.     Were  you  apprenticed? 

Tramp. 

My  apprenticeship  was  unsatisfactory,  I  was 
given  to  a  smith,  not  by  my  real  mother  but  my 
adopted  mother.  That  blacksmith  was  my  first 
teacher.  And  his  teaching  consisted  in  beating 
me  so,  that  he  hit  his  anvil  seldomer  than  my  un- 
happy head.  But  no  matter  how  much  he  beat 
me,  he  could  not  deprive  me  of  talent.  Then  I 
went  to  a  locksmith;  there  I  was  appreciated,  and 
made  my  way.  I  became  the  chief  craftsman;  I 
made  the  acquaintance  of  educated  men.  I  be- 
longed to  a  party;  I  was  able  to  acquire  literary 


I70  THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL 

speech.     My  life  might  have  been  raised,   for  I 
had  enormous  talent. 

Akulina. 
Of  course. 

Tramp. 

And  then  there  was  a  disturbance  —  the  tyran- 
nous burden  of  the  people's  life  —  and  I  got  into 
prison,  and  was  deprived  of  liberty  of  my  life. 

Martha. 


What  for? 
For  rights. 

What  rights? 


Tramp. 
Martha. 


Tramp. 

What  rights !  The  rights  that  the  well-to-do 
should  not  be  everlastingly  idle,  and  that  the 
working  proletariat  should  be  rewarded  for  his 
toil. 

Akulina. 
You're  talking  about  the  land. 

Tramp. 

Of  course.  It  is  the  same  in  the  agrarian 
question. 


THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL  171 

Akulina. 

May  the  Lord  and  the  Queen  of  Heaven  grant 
it.     We  are  sorely  pushed  for  land. 

Tramp. 

So  my  barque  was  carried  along  on  the  waves  of 
li,fe's  ocean. 

Akulina. 

What  are  you  going  to  do  now? 

Tramp. 

Now?  Now  I'm  going  to  Moscow.  I  shall 
go  to  some  contractor.  There's  no  help  for  it. 
I  shall  humble  myself.  I  shall  say,  Give  me  any 
work  you  like,  only  take  me  on. 

Akulina. 
Have  some  more  tea. 

Tramp. 
Thank  you ;  I  mean  merci. 

Akulina. 
There's  Michael.     Just  in  time  for  tea. 

Martha. 

(Rises.)      Oh,  woe  betide  us.     He's  with  Ig- 
nat.     So  he's  drunk. 


172  THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL 

Michael   and   Ignat   stumble 
into  the  room;  both  are  drunk. 

Ignat. 

How  do  you  do?  {He  prays  before  the  ikon.) 
Here  we  are,  you  dirty  skunk,*  just  in  time  for 
the  samovar.  We  go  to  church  —  mass  is  just 
over;  we  go  to  dinner,  just  eaten  up,  but  we  go  to 
the  pub  and  we're  In  the  nick  of  time.  Ha-ha-ha. 
You  offer  us  tea,  we  offer  you  vodka.  That's  all 
right,  isn't  it?      {He  laughs*.) 

Michael. 

Where  did  this  swell  come  from?  {He  takes 
a  bottle  from  his  coat  pocket  and  puts  it  on  the 
table.)      Where  are  the  cups? 

Akulina. 
Did  you  have  a  good  trip? 

Ignat. 

It  couldn't  have  been  better,  you  dirty  skunk. 
We  drank,  we  had  a  good  time,  and  here  we  are. 

Michael. 

{Fills  the  cup,  and  hands  one  to  his  mother  and 
then  one  to  the  tramp.)      Have  a  drink,  too. 

*  Literally,  "  dirty  stick  " —  a  very  offensive  expression  in  Rus- 
sia.—  Editor. 


THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL  i73 

Tramp. 

{Takes  cup.)  I  give  you  heartfelt  thanks. 
To  your  health.      {Empties  cup.) 

Ignat. 

You're  a  brick,  you  dirty  skunk,  to  gulp  it  down 
like  that.  I  expect  it's  gone  all  down  your  mus- 
cles after  your  fast.      {He  pours  out  more  vodka.) 

Tramp. 

{Drinking.)  I  wish  success  to  all  you  under- 
take. 

Akulina. 

Did  you  get  a  good  price? 

Ignat. 

Whatever  the  price  was,  it's  all  gone  on  drink, 
you  dirty  skunk.     Hasn't  it,  Michael? 

Michael. 

Of  course.  What's  the  good  of  looking  at 
money?  It's  not  often  you  get  the  chance  of  a 
spree. 

Martha. 

What  are  you  showing  off  for?  It's  not  nice. 
There's  no  food  in  the  house,  and  you  go  on  like 
this. 


174  THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL 

Michael. 
( Threateningly. )      M  artha  ! 

Martha. 

What's  the  good  of  saying  Martha?  I  know 
I'm  Martha.  The  very  sight  of  you  makes  me 
sick,  you  shameless  drunkard! 

Michael. 
Martha,  you  take  care. 

Martha. 
Take  care,  indeed.     I  shan't  take  care. 

Michael. 
Pour  out  the  vodka,  and  offer  it  to  the  guests. 

Martha. 

Oh,  you  blear-eyed  dogl  I  don't  want  to  speak 
to  you. 

Michael. 

You  don't  1     You  dog's  hidel     What  did  you 


say? 


Martha. 


{Rocking  the  cradle.)      What   did   I   say?     I 
said  I  didn't  want  to  speak  to  you,  so  there ! 


THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL  175 

Michael. 

Ah,  you've  forgotten?  {Springs  from  the  ta- 
ble and  gives  her  a  blow  on  the  head  that  displaces 
her  shawl.) 

Martha. 

{Running  to  the  door.)      Oh-h-h-h  1 

Michael. 

You  shan't  go  away,  you  beast  I  {Rushes  to- 
wards her.) 

Tramp. 

{Jumps  from  the  table  and  seizes  Michael's 
hand.)      You  have  no  right  whatever  to  do  that. 

Michael. 

{Pausing  and  looking  at  the  tramp  with  amaze- 
ment.)     Is  it  long  since  you  had  a  thrashing? 

Tramp. 

You  have  no  right  whatever  to  insult  the  female 
sex. 

Michael. 

Oh,  you  hound.  Do  you  see  that?  {He 
shows  him  his  fist.) 

Tramp. 
You  are  not  allowed  to  exploit  the  female  sex. 


176  THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL 

Michael. 

I'll  give  you  such  a  sound  licking  that  you  won't 
know  your  head  from  your  heels. 

Tramp. 

Well,  beat  me.     Why  don't  you?     Beat  me. 
{He  offers  him  his  face.) 

Michael. 

{Shrugs    his   shoulders    and   lifts    his    hands.) 
Well,  if  I  do  — 

Tramp. 

You  may  sin  seven   times;  you   can  only  pay 
the  penalty  once.     Beat  me. 

Michael. 

You  are  a  queer  man,  I  must  say.      {He  drops 
his  arms  and  shakes  his  head.) 

Ignat. 

It's  easy  to  see  you're  pretty  gone  on  women, 
you  dirty  skunk. 

Tramp. 
I  stand  up  for  rights. 

Michael. 

{To  Martha,  going  to  the  table  and  breath- 
ing heavily.)      Well,   Martha,  you'd  better  light 


THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL      .    177 

a  big  candle,  and  say  a  good  prayer  for  him.* 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  him  I'd  have  beaten  you  to 
pulp. 

Martha. 

What  else  do  I  expect  from  you?  Struggle 
all  your  life,  bake  and  boil,  and  directly  — 

Michael. 

That'll  do,  that'll  do.  {He  offers  the  tramp 
some  vodka.)  Drink.  {To  his  wife.)  What 
are  you  making  such  a  fuss  about?  Can't  under- 
stand a  joke.  Here,  take  the  money,  and  put  it 
away.     Here  are  six  roubles  and  forty  kopeks. 

Akulina. 

What  about  the  tea  and  sugar  she  asked  for? 
Michael  gets  a  packet  out  of 
r  his  pocket  and  gives  it  to  his  wife. 
Martha  takes  the  money  and  the 
parcel  and  goes  into  the  closet,  si- 
lently arranging  the  shawl  on  her 
head. 

Michael. 

These  women  folk  are  such  fools.  {He  ofers 
more  vodka.) 

*  It  is  a  custom  in  Russia  to  light  candles  before  ikons  in  the 
churches,  and  to  light  one  on  behalf  of  the  person  you  wish  to 
thank   is  a  common   way   of  expressing  gratitude. — Editor. 


178    .      THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL 

Tramp. 
(Refusing.)      Drink  it  yourself. 

Michael. 
Don't  stand  on  ceremony. 

Tramp. 
(Drinks.)      All  success  to  you. 

Ignat. 

(To  the  Tramp.)  I  expect  you've  seen  many 
sights.  Oh,  you've  got  a  fine  coat  on,  a  real  good 
coat.  Wherever  did  you  get  it?  (He  touches 
the  ragged  coat.)  Don't  you  mend  it;  it's  fine 
just  as  it  is.  Years  are  telling  on  it,  but  you  can't 
help  that.  If  I  had  a  coat  like  that  the  women 
would  love  me  too.  (To  Martha.)  Wouldn't 
they?  » 

Akulina. 

You  ought  not  to  make  fun  of  a  man  that  you 
know  nothing  about,  Ignat. 

Tramp. 
It  Is  want  of  education. 

Ignat. 

I  mean  it  kindly.      Drink.      (Offers  cup.) 

Tramp  drinks. 


THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL  179 

Akulina. 

You  said  yourself  that  it  was  the  cause  of  all 
things,  and  that  you'd  been  to  prison  through  it. 

Michael. 
What  did  you  do  time  for? 

Tramp. 

{Very  drunk.)  I  suffered  because  I  made  an 
appropriation. 

Michael. 
How? 

Tramp. 

It  was  like  this.  We  came  to  him,  the  fat-bel- 
lied creature,  and  we  said,  "  Money  —  if  not,  see 
here's  a  revolver."  He  tried  every  way,  this  way 
and  that,  but  he  gave  us  2,300  roubles. 

Akulina. 
O  Lord  I 

Tramp. 

We  were  just  going  to  distribute  this  sum 
fairly;  Zembrikov  was  our  leader.  But  the  crows 
were  down  on  us.  We  were  arrested  —  sent  to 
prison. 

Ignat. 

And  did  they  take  the  money. 


i8o  THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL 

Tramp. 

Of  course.  But  they  could  not  bring  it  home 
to  me.  The  prosecutmg  counsel  said  to  me, 
"  You  have  stolen  money."  I  answered  at  once, 
"  Robbers  steal;  but  we  have  simply  appropriated 
for  the  party."  He  couldn't  say  anything  to 
that.  He  tried  one  thing  and  another,  but  he 
could  not  answer.  "  Take  him  away  to  prison," 
he  said,  thus  cutting  short  my  liberty  of  my  life. 

Ignat. 

{To  Michael.)  He's  clever,  the  hound.  A 
brick.  {He  offers  more  vodka.)  Drink,  you 
dirty  skunk. 

Akulina. 
What  language  you  do  use. 

Ignat. 

I'm  not  swearing,  grannie.  That's  only  a  lit- 
tle phrase  of  mine  —  dirty  skunk,  dirty  skunk. 
To  your  health,  grannie. 

Martha  covies  in,  goes  to  the 
table  and  pours  out  tea. 

Michael. 

That's  all  right.  What's  the  good  of  being 
offended?     I   say  thank  you   to   him.     I   respect 


THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL  i8r 

you,  Martha,  ever  so  much.  {To  the  Tramp.) 
Don't  you  make  a  mistake.  {He  puts  his  arm 
round  Martha.)  I  respect  my  old  woman — • 
that's  how  I  respect  my  old  woman.  My  old 
woman;  she's  Ai.  I  wouldn't  change  her  for 
anybody. 

Ignat. 

That's  right.  Grannie  Akulina,  have  a  drink. 
I  stand  it. 

Tramp. 

Such  is  the  power  of  alcoholic  stimulation. 
Every  one  was  in  a  state  of  melancholy.  Now  all 
is  pleasant.  Friendly  feeling  reigns,  grannie. 
I  feel  full  of  love  to  you  and  to  all  mankind. 
Dear  brothers.      {He  sings  a  revolutionary  song.) 

Michael. 
It  affects  him  very  much.     He's  been  starved. 

ACT    II 

The  same  hut.  Morning. 
Akulina  and  Martha.  Mi- 
chael is  still  sleeping. 

Martha. 

{Picking  up  the  axe.)      I'm  going  to  chop  some 
wood. 


1 82  THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL 

Akulina. 

{With  a  pail.)  He'd  have  knocked  you  about 
badly  yesterday  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  other 
one.  I  don't  see  him.  Has  he  gone?  I  ex- 
pect he  has. 

They  both  go  out. 

Michael. 

{Getting  down  from  the  stove.)  Oh,  oh,  the 
sun  is  up.  {He  gets  up  and  puts  on  his  hoots.) 
I  suppose  the  women  have  gone  to  fetch  water. 
Oh,  my  head  does  ache.  But  I  don't  care.  It 
can  go  to  the  devil.  {Says  his  prayers;  washes.) 
I'll  go  and  harness  the  horse. 

Martha  enters  with  wood. 

Martha. 
Where's  yesterday's  beggar?     Is  he  gone? 

Michael. 
I  suppose  so.     I  don't  see  him. 

Martha. 

It  doesn't  matter.  But  he  is  clearly  a  clever 
man.  He  said  he  earned  fifty  roubles  a  month. 
He  is  a  good  man  also. 


THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL  183 

Michael. 

You   think  he   Is   good  because   he   took  your 
part. 

Martha. 
What  of  that? 

Michael  dresses. 

Martha. 

Did  you  put  away  the  tea  and  sugar  you  brought 
home  last  night? 

Michael. 
I  thought  you  took  them. 

Akulina  enters  with  the  pail. 

Martha. 

{To  the  old  woman.)      Mother,  did  you  take 
the  parcel? 

Akulina. 

1  don't  know  anything  about  it. 

Michael. 
I  put  it  down  on  the  window  sill  last  night. 

Akulina. 
I  saw  it  there. 

Martha. 
Where  can  it  be?      {Searches.) 


1 84  THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL 

Akulina. 
It's  a  bad  job. 

A  Neighbour  enters. 

Neighbour. 

Well,   Michael,   are  you  ready  to  go   for  the 
wood? 

Michael. 

Of  course.  I'll  harness  directly.  But,  you  see, 
we've  lost  something. 

Neighbour. 
Have  you?     What  Is  It? 

Martha. 

The  master  brought  back  a  parcel  of  tea  and 
sugar  from  town  last  night.  He  put  It  here  on 
the  window.  I  hadn't  the  sense  to  put  It  away, 
and  now  It's  gone. 

Michael. 
We  suspect  the  tramp  who  slept  here. 

Neighbour. 
What  tramp? 

Martha. 
He  was  a  thin  man,  without  a  beard. 


THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL  185 

Michael. 
With  a  ragged  coat. 

Neighbour. 
And  curly  hair  and  a  hooked  nose? 

Michael. 

Yes,  yes. 

Neighbour. 

T  just  met  him.     I  wondered  to  see  him  walk 
so  fast. 

Michael. 

It's  sure  to  be  him.  Was  he  far  off  when  you 
.net  him? 

Neighbour. 

I  don't  expect  he's  crossed  the  bridge  yet. 

Michael. 

{Seizes  his  cap;  he  and  the  NEIGHBOUR  r//;/ 
out.)  We  must  catch  him,  the  rogue.  He  took 
it. 

Martha. 

Oh,  what  a  sin.     It's  sure  to  be  him. 

Akulina. 

And  what  if  it  is  not?  Once,  about  twenty 
years  ago,  a  man  was  accused  of  having  stolen  a 


1 86  THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL 

horse.  The  villagers  gathered  together;  one 
said,  "  I  saw  him  put  a  halter  on  him."  Another 
said,  "  I  saw  him  leading  it  off."  The  horse  was 
a  big,  long,  dappled  one,  easy  to  see.  Everybody 
began  to  search  for  it.  In  the  wood  they  met  the 
young  man.  "  You  took  it,"  He  swore  on  his 
oath  he  hadn't.  "  You  took  it.  What's  the  good 
of  looking  at  him?  "  said  one;  "the  women  said 
they  had  seen  him  and  they  are  right."  He  an- 
swered roughly.  And  George  Lapushkin,  a  hot- 
tempered  man  he  was  —  he's  dead  now  —  just 
lifted  his  fist  and  gave  him  a  blow  in  the  face. 
"  It  was  you,"  he  said.  After  that  blow,  every 
one  fell  on  him;  they  struck  him  with  sticks  and 
with  their  fists,  and  they  beat  him  to  death.  And 
then  what  do  you  think  happened?  The  next  day 
they  found  the  real  thief.  The  other  young  man 
had  only  gone  to  the  wood  to  pick  out  a  tree  to 
fell. 

Martha. 

Of  course,  it's  easy  enough  to  make  a  mistake. 
Although  he's  not  in  a  good  position,  it's  clear 
he's  a  good  man. 

Akulina. 

He's  fallen  very  low.  What  can  you  expect 
from  such  a  man? 


THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL  187 

Martha. 

Listen  to  tFiem  shouting!  They  are  bringing 
him  back,  I  expect. 

Michael  enters,  also  the 
Neighbour,  an  old  man,  and  a 
boy.  They  push  in  the  Tramp 
between  them. 

Michael. 

{Holding  the  tea  and  sugar  to  his  wife,  ex- 
citedly.) I  found  it  in  his  trouser  pocket.  The 
thief,  the  rogue ! 

Akulina. 
(To  Martha.)     Yes,  it's  him,  poor  fellow. 
See  how  he  hangs  his  head. 

Martha. 

He  was  evidently  talking  about  himself  yester- 
day, when  he  said  that  a  man  will  take  anything 
when  he's  drunk. 

Tramp. 

I'm  not  a  thief.  I'm  an  appropriator.  I  am 
a  worker,  and  I  must  live.  You  can't  understand. 
You  may  do  your  worst. 

Neighbour. 

Shall  we  take  him  to  the  village  elder,  or 
straight  to  the  police? 


1 88  THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL 

Tramp. 
Do  what  you  like,  I  say.      I  am  afraid  of  noth- 
ing,  and  can   suffer   for  my  convictions.      If  you 
were  well  educated  you  would  understand. 

Martha. 
{To    her    husband.)      Let    him    go    in    peace. 
We've  got  the  parcel  back.     Let  him  go;  don't 
let  us  sin. 

Michael. 

{Repeating  his  wife's  words.)  Don't  let  us 
sin.  You  want  to  teach  me !  I  don't  know  what 
to  do  without  you? 

Martha. 
I  only  said  you  might  let  him  off. 

Michael. 

Let  him  off.  Don't  I  know  what  to  do  unless 
you  teach  me,  you  fool?  Let  him  off!  He  may 
go,  but  I  have  a  word  to  say  to  him  to  make  him 
feel  what  he's  done.  So  you  listen,  mossieu,  to 
what  I  have  to  say.  You  may  be  in  a  nasty  fix, 
but  what  you've  done  is  disgusting,  very  disgust- 
ing. Another  man  would  break  your  ribs  for  it, 
and  then  take  you  to  the  police;  but  I  say.  You've 
done  a  nasty  thing:  it  could  not  be  worse.  But 
you  are  in  such  a  bad  way  that  I  don't  want  to 


THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL  189 

harm  you.  Go,  go,  in  God's  name,  and  don't  do 
such  a  thing  again.  (  Turning  to  his  wife.)  And 
you  wanted  to  teach  me. 

Neighbour. 

You're  wrong,  Michael;  you're  wrong  to  en- 
courage them. 

Michael 

(Still  holding  the  parcel.)  If  I'm  wrong,  I'm 
wrong.  It's  my  business.  (To  his  wife.)  You 
want  to  teach  me.  (He  pauses,  looks  at  the  par- 
cel, and  with  a  decisive  movement  gives  it  to  the 
Tramp,  looking  at  his  wife.)  Take  this,  and 
drink  tea  on  your  way.  (To  the  wife.)  You 
want  to  teach  me.  Go  along,  go  along;  it's  no 
good  talking  about  it. 

Tramp. 

(Takes  the  parcel. —  J  pause.)  You  think  I 
don't  understand?  (His  voice  trembles.)  I 
quite  understand.  Had  you  beaten  me  like  a  dog 
it  would  have  been  easier.  Do  you  think  I  don't 
know  what  I  am?  I  am  a  rogue :  I  mean  a  degen- 
erate. Forgive  me,  for  Christ's  sake.  (Sobs, 
throws  the  parcel  on  the  table,  and  leaves  the  hut 
hurriedly.) 

Martha. 

I'm  glad  he  didn't  take  the  tea,  or  we  couldn't 
have  made  any. 


I90  THE  CAUSE  OF  IT  ALL 

Michael. 
{To  his  wife.)      You  wanted  to  teach  me. 

Neighbour. 
Poor  fellow!  he  burst  into  tears. 

Akulina. 
He  Is  a  man,  too. 


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